8. Beneath the Surface #3
“Property taxes on this place must be astronomical,” she interrupts, cutting through my explanation like it’s as insubstantial as the candle smoke. “Not to mention the repairs needed. That roof alone would cost what, thirty thousand? Forty?”
I set my fork down carefully, the clink of silver against china sounding too loud in the suddenly tense air. “I’m handling it.”
“Are you, though?” Her eyebrow arches perfectly. “Because from what I can see, you’re living in a money pit that’s one storm away from collapsing around you.”
I snort. “Trust me, this house has weathered worse than whatever apocalyptic scenario you’ve got going on up there.
” My mind flashes to the Watcher during the last bad storm — perched on the roof in the rain, hammer in hand, refusing to come down even as lightning cracked across the sky.
“The foundation’s outlasted three centuries of hurricanes and the occasional lawyer. It’ll manage.”
Maeve takes another sip of wine, watching me over the rim of her glass. “I spoke with Lyle Garrow before I came,” she says, dropping this bomb with practised casualness. “He mentioned the town council would pay generously for this land.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. My fingers tighten around my knife handle until my knuckles turn white. “You’ve been talking to Garrow? About my property?”
“Don’t look so betrayed, Elara. I’m trying to help you.” Her tone softens to something almost maternal, which somehow makes it worse. “This place is a liability, not an asset. The smart move would be to sell while you have a willing buyer.”
I set my wine glass down hard enough that burgundy sloshes over the rim.
“This estate is not for sale,” I say, leaning forward with both palms flat on the table.
“Not to Garrow and his greasy handshakes, not to the town council and their little backroom meetings, not to God himself if He showed up on a cloud with a briefcase full of cash. Are we clear, or should I get that engraved on a plaque for your office?”
Maeve sighs, used to my little outbursts by now, setting down her glass with a distinct click.
“This irrational attachment isn’t healthy, you know.
Living alone in a place like this, hearing things…
” Her fingers tap against the table in a rhythm that sets my teeth on edge.
“It changes people. Makes them see threats where there are none, create connections that don’t exist.”
My breath catches. Is that why she’s here? Not just to convince me to sell, but because she thinks I’m losing my mind? The implications send heat rushing to my face, anger bubbling just beneath my carefully maintained composure.
“I’m perfectly sane, Maeve.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “And I’m not selling.”
“Then what’s your plan?” She gestures around the dining room with its faded grandeur. “To play haunted house curator forever? To pour every cent you earn into maintaining a building that’s frankly past saving?”
As she speaks, I notice something odd: her eyes keep darting to specific corners of the room, not randomly but with purpose.
To the carved mouldings near the fireplace.
To the ceiling medallion above the table.
To the antique mirror hanging on the far wall.
Each glance is quick but deliberate, as if she’s searching for something.
“What are you looking for?” I ask abruptly, cutting off her speech about responsible financial planning.
Maeve freezes for just a fraction of a second, so brief I might have missed it if I weren’t watching for her reaction. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You keep looking around the room. At specific spots.” I set my napkin beside my plate and lean forward. “You’re searching for something.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She laughs, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m admiring the architectural details. This woodwork is quite impressive, despite its condition.”
It’s a plausible explanation, but it doesn’t match the calculation I saw in her quick glances, the way her gaze lingered on areas where a person might hide surveillance equipment, or where hidden passages might open into the main room.
“You know,” I say slowly, “for someone who claims to be concerned about my mental health, you seem awfully interested in whether this house is being watched.”
The candlelight catches the sudden tension in her jaw, the slight narrowing of her eyes. “I think you’re reading too much into casual observation, Elara. Perhaps that’s part of what concerns me.”
The temperature drops another few degrees, enough that I can see Maeve’s breath cloud slightly when she exhales. Her eyes widen, gaze darting to the windows as if checking whether they’re open.
“It gets drafty at night,” I explain, repeating her earlier observation with deliberate calm while my mind races. Why is Maeve so interested in the house’s hiding places? What did Garrow tell her that made surveillance her first concern?
“Indeed.” She pushes her chair back slightly. “I think I’ll turn in early. The drive was exhausting, and we clearly aren’t going to reach any agreement tonight.”
I nod, relieved yet unsettled by the abrupt end to our dinner. “Your room should be comfortable. I put fresh linens on the bed.”
Maeve stands, smoothing her perfectly pressed slacks. “Thank you for dinner,” she says with professional courtesy. “Perhaps in the morning, we can discuss this more… productively.”
As she turns to leave, her gaze sweeps the room one final time, lingering on the carved panel near the fireplace, a panel I now know conceals one of the house’s many secret passages. The look in her eyes isn’t curiosity but confirmation, as if she’s found exactly what she was looking for.
“Sleep well,” I call after her retreating form, my voice steady despite the storm of questions raging in my mind. Whatever game Maeve is playing, she knows more about this house, about him, possibly, than she’s admitting.
And that makes her more dangerous than I ever anticipated.
The sound slices through my dream like a knife, not the comforting creaks and sighs of the house settling that have become my nighttime lullaby, but something deliberate.
Human. My eyes snap open to darkness so complete it takes several blinks to confirm I’m actually awake.
2:27 AM glows accusingly from my bedside clock.
I lie perfectly still, ears straining against the silence, wondering if I imagined it.
Then it comes again, the distinctive scrape of a drawer being carefully opened, followed by the soft rustle of papers.
Someone’s going through my things, and the only other person in this house is Maeve.
I slide out from under the covers, careful to avoid the squeaky board beside my bed.
The floor is cold under my bare feet as I grab the robe off my bedpost. Do I confront her?
Call out? Pretend I’m just going for water?
My heart is hammering as I ease the bedroom door open, wincing at the soft click of the latch.
The hallway stretches before me, moonlight filtering through the leaded glass windows to create pools of silver on the worn carpet runner. Another sound reaches me, the soft thud of something heavy being set down, followed by a muffled curse. It’s coming from the library.
I move silently down the corridor, grateful for the weeks I spent memorizing which floorboards creak and which don’t.
The house feels different at this hour, watchful and alert, as if it, too, is holding its breath to see what Maeve is doing.
Or maybe that’s just me projecting my own suspicions onto these ancient walls.
The library door stands partially open, a sliver of golden light spilling into the hallway. Not moonlight, lamplight. Warm, artificial, betraying Maeve’s presence. I approach slowly, careful to stay in the shadows, and peer through the narrow opening.
Maeve stands at my desk, a small flashlight clenched between her teeth as she rifles through stacks of documents.
My property deeds, historical records, and the architectural plans I’ve been piecing together, all spread across the surface in disarray.
Her normally perfect hair is slightly mussed, her silk pyjamas wrinkled, as if she’s been at this for hours.
But it’s the intensity in her eyes that sends ice through my veins; this isn’t casual snooping.
She’s searching for something specific, something important enough to risk getting caught.
I push the door open fully, flipping on the overhead light in one smooth motion. “What are you doing?”
Maeve startles violently, papers scattering as she whirls to face me. The flashlight drops from her mouth, clattering against the desk. For one unguarded moment, naked panic crosses her features before she schools her expression back to something approaching calm.
“Elara,” she manages, one hand pressed against her chest as if to steady her racing heart. “You scared me.”
I lean against the door frame and cross my arms. “Well, isn’t this cozy.
I must’ve missed the chapter in Emily Post where midnight ransacking counts as acceptable houseguest behaviour.
” I step into the room, taking in the explosion of papers across my desk.
“Did you at least find what you were looking for? Or should I just leave my financial records on the kitchen table so you don’t have to sneak around tomorrow night? ”
She attempts a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “I couldn’t sleep. All those strange noises you’ve grown accustomed to.” Her hand waves vaguely, dismissively. “I thought I’d do some light reading.”
“Property deeds and structural blueprints?” I move closer, noting which sections she’s been focusing on: the original foundation plans, the property boundary documents. “Quite the bedtime story.”
“Professional curiosity.” She begins gathering the papers into a haphazard stack, movements too quick, too jerky. “Once a lawyer, always a lawyer. Old properties like this often have fascinating legal histories.”