Page 10 of The Right Wrong Promise

“You’rewelcome,girlie. That’s better,” the woman says too brightly. “But I’ll admit it was lucky I broke her fall. We scared each other out of our wits. Either way, we’re both miraculously unharmed.”

For the first time, I notice the large splinters on the floor. When I glance up, there’s a gaping hole in the railing.

“You fell from up there?” I confirm quickly with Sophie, my eyes still fixed on the woman. “Are you okay?”

“I spun around too fast. But yeah, I’m fine, Dad.”

“See?” the woman prods. “Now, maybe you won’t mind explaining whoyouare and what you’re doing in my house?”

“Yourhouse? Come on. Take the comedy act somewhere else.” I snort.

“Yes, my house. Why do you think I’m here? How do you think I got in?” She gestures around the entire room, turninga full 360. “You think I just go around breaking into people’s homes and scaring their children for fun?”

“How would I know, woman? No clue who you are.” I fold my arms right back, glaring at her. “I know for a fact you don’t own this place. I did my research before I booked it. It’s a Blackthorn property, and you don’t look like Leonidas Blackthorn.”

Her face changes, so fast I almost miss it.

A flicker, the flame dimming in her eyes.

A second later, it’s back, though, and dialed up in intensity.

“Obviously,” she clips. “I’m his granddaughter, Margot Blackthorn. He died months ago—didn’t you know?”

Iwasaware, but I didn’t think that she would be.

I just assumed—

Shit.

In New York, you’d have to live under a damn rock to avoid hearing the name Blackthorn. That goes double in New England, especially in this small town, Sully Bay.

The Blackthorns are one of the heavy hitters on the Eastern Seaboard, and easily the wealthiest family in Maine. Even national journals covered his death and the company’s aftermath for weeks.

Now I’m face-to-face with this woman, who’s claiming to be one?

Fucking doubtful.

Where’s her entourage? Her staffers and bodyguards?

I give her another stone-cold look of frosted skepticism.

Designer sunglasses.

Blonde streaks in her hair, almost certainly from a high-end salon.

Black leather jacket, molded to her body, and jeans.

Casual enough, but the way it sits on her frame tells me that she chose this outfit deliberately. And that leather isn’t some cheap knockoff material. It’s the very expensive real deal.

Before I can grill her, she’s moving.

“You know what, screw it,” she mutters, brushing past me and stalking to the back door where apparently she’s dumped a collection of her stuff. There’s an oversized rollaway parked next to a green leather bag resting on a chair, and she starts rifling through it.

That’s probably designer, too.

I don’t have a problem with luxury goods, even if Daria killed the shine.

Then again, Daria wouldn’t be here with a dust-covered ass and a bare face, moving like she doesn’t give a shit about how she looks.