Page 63 of The Right Wrong Promise

Dan gave me a whole rundown on how ancient Norsemen made it to Canada and northern Maine isn’t ‘that far’ in his humble opinion.

I actually wish their curiosity and innocence could help me.

I’m starting to wonder if there’s anything left for me to find.

After the last home inventory, Holden packed up the few remaining valuables to bring back to Portland for safekeeping before this place turned into a short-term rental. Nothing notable left behind besides a couple miscellaneous art pieces and a china set.

But what if something was taken that should’ve stayed?

Then again, I’m positive Gramps knew that could happen after he died.

He wouldn’t leave anything out in the open that could be grabbed by his loyal and meticulous servant or anyone else if he wanted me to find it.

With every room, every day that passes without finding anything, the anxiety wound around my throat tightens.

At least I’m not alone in the hunt.

When he isn’t tightening doors and cabinets or touching up little dents in the walls, Kane helps out.

He’s better at this than I am, too.

Even if he cracks his dumb Dad jokes while I’m turning blue with frustration.

The way I groan or laugh painfully forces me to take a break, to breathe, to stop myself from ripping my hair out over nothing turning up again.

“Thanks for roughing it up here with me,” I tell him now as he wipes dust off his chin.

It’s hard to breathe without coughing thanks to decades of accumulated particles thrown into the air by every footstep.

A single bright bulb dangles from the middle of the attic, which we’re searching asecond time.

Yesterday, I poked my head up here for the first time and started pawing through old furniture and boxes of broken toys I haven’t seen since I was five. I gave up and didn’t bother with another pass.

But this is the last major area we haven’t picked to the bone and it’s a natural storage space. So yes, it warrants a second sweep.

Incredibly, Kane hasn’t complained once while we’re stumbling through fifty years of cobwebs. All so he can help me comb through family debris he’s not even connected to.

His eyes meet mine over a pile of boxes we’ve turned out.

“I’d say it’s my pleasure, but we both know that would be a lie.”

And we all know how he feels about lies.

“What? You mean you’renothaving the time of your life?” I wipe my forehead, smearing dust everywhere. “Need some water?”

He holds out a hand for the bottle, which I toss to him.

His throat moves when he rips the cap off and drinks, and his eyes close.

Ugh!

A man drinking water has no business looking this erotic.

“Think we’re almost done. We’re getting to the end of that last stack,” he says, lowering the bottle and glancing at the pile of books he was flipping through.

Gramps was an avid book collector and I think my grandma was too. There are a ton of old overflow books from the fifties packed away up here. Mostly editions of old classics, American lit, and some thrillers from the eighties with fun cheesy covers of explosions and bloodied hands gripping knives.

My book crazy bestie and sister-in-law would die from joy.