Page 104 of The Right Wrong Promise

Maine is a living painting sometimes, so beautiful even Dadzilla had to admit he’s enjoying his time here.

I smile.

Every time I close my eyes, I feel his weight behind me.

His strong arms around me and his massive hands on the reins next to mine.

His hand on my back when we were talking to Edith Griffith.

He knew I needed that silent comfort, the reassurance to keep up a strong front against my worries and the confusion nipping at my soul. That’s why I whipped up a small batch of blueberry muffins once we came home, my way of saying thanks.

And I feel like I need his reassurance again now, alone in my room as I stare at my phone.

Yeah, talking to Mom about her father will never be easy, especially now that he’s gone. That almost makes it worse.

I think it’s one of several reasons Gramps passed on having a proper funeral. He wouldn’t put Mom through that—or us.

But there wasn’t much of a goodbye through the old man’s pride.

Everything we learned this past year about Ethan, about Mom’s relationship, about the affair and panic my grandfather’s ego triggered, it just made things more awkward.

But she’s my mother.

And she answers on the second ring while my breath turns to cement in my lungs.

“Mom?”

“Margot! Darling! How are you?”

I close my eyes. “I’m decent. Still hanging out here at the lake house, y’know.”

“That old place? God.” There’s instant venom in her tone. “How’s it holding up, anyway? Last I heard, it was practically derelict. Holden Verity, he recommended extensive renovations, if not a teardown and—”

“Mom, I know, and it’s notthatbad. It’s safe and the appliances still work.” After a strained second, I decide not to mention Kane and his fixer-upper superpowers that helped make this place bearable. “I was actually just calling to see if you might remember anything special about the house. Anything important, I mean?”

“Important how?” Her voice sharpens.

“I don’t know. Just like—anything significant that might’ve been forgotten? Anything PopPop left behind or just loved about this place?”

I hear her sigh, slow and tortured.

“I should’ve known. Don’t tell me that awful man slappedmoreridiculous conditions on you inheriting that dive. The way he insisted on bringing you two up there as kids was dreadful enough. I wanted to tell him to—”

“No! Mom, no,” I say quickly. “Nothing like that. I told you everything after my little meeting with Jackie Wilkes. Remember? No conditions. No fake marriage funny business like Ethan.”

“Well, good. He always did enjoy his little games and riddles, but the time for that ended the day he died. It was childish enough while he was still alive, always spinning stories or addingto his little art collection more than he paid attention to his business.Idiot,” she huffs out.

My heart sinks.

This is going so well.

I shuffle to the bed, sliding my feet under me, steeling my nerves.

Outside, a large harvest moon rises. I can practically feel its call to the tides and ancient colonial witches and creatures of the night.

The quieter New England gets, the wilder the country.

“Margot, really, what has you so stressed? What did he do this time?”