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“Can I help you with anything?” Charles asks.
“I… I was thinking of taking a walk,” I say.
He remains silent for a moment, then adds, “They’re calling for some nasty weather. It might be dangerous to leave the house.”
I look at the clear blue sky through one of the windows. “Yes. Bad weather.” Releasing the handle, I turn back to Charles. “But if I wanted to dance in the rain, would you let me?”
A soft smile tugs his lips. “Yes. But I’d give you an umbrella. You can dance in the rain if that’s what you want to do.”
Sighing, I nod and make my way back into the house and shut the door quietly behind me.
So it’s true, then. I’m the only thing standing between me and my enemies. Those who might be aware I’m here, anyway. Charles would have let me go. But he would have sent me armed.
The unexpected kindness makes me smile. Even amongst thieves, there is honor.
* * *
Cooking has always been something I take great pleasure in. Not the act of it necessarily, but the memories it brings. Momma was a full-time officer at the Philadelphia Police Department. Once she was promoted to lead detective, it became even harder for her to spend time with her girls.
To make the most out of every minute with us, she insisted that we cook at least one meal together. Maisie despised cooking, so she’d usually disappear halfway through. But I found it soothing to learn her traditional Scottish recipes, her telling me about her youth while I spilled all of my teen woes on her shoulder.
I miss my mother. Desperately wish she were here so that I could tell her about Daddy and Arran and all of the ways I feel like a fucked-up mess.
How I’m so full of fear that were it not for Maisie, I’d be frozen by it.
So I go to the kitchen and search for something to make. Arran isn’t Scottish. Actually, I’m not exactly sure what he is. Regardless, there’s very little in his pantry that resembles the fully stocked one Momma kept.
“Cooking is cooking.” I decide to make fully loaded omelets. Anything that can bring me that sense of connection with my mother. Where even if I can’t speak with her, she might hear me calling.
I cut peppers, onions, and mushrooms, grate a block of gruyere cheese, and blister grape tomatoes. There’s a loaf of fresh bread, and I slather it with butter, then toss it in the oven.
I’m so focused that I don’t notice the passing of time. Thoughts of everything that’s happened are placed on the back burner. All that matters is the crafting of this delicious meal.
That is, until I catch sight of something in my peripheral. A slightly raised panel in the butler’s pantry, which is located between the kitchen and formal dining room. Narrowing my gaze, I approach it and run my fingertips over the edge.
I hadn’t noticed this before, and I’ve searched everything, including the liquor cabinet in this area. That means, at one point, this panel was flush with the wall and invisible.
Pulling it, I manage to open what I now realize is a door. Before me is a narrow wooden staircase leading to the basement. I hit the light switch just inside, and the space illuminates brightly.
“Hello!” I call down.
Biting my lower lip, I take one step, then another. Above me, I hear the door softly close again. Arran did say I could go anywhere I want to. If he catches me down here, he can’t be upset about it.
“Hello,” I call again, just in case.
When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I get a good view of just how large the basement is. It has to be even larger than the footprint of the house!
In one section, I pass furniture that’s been covered with white sheets. “Those are gonna get musty,” I say to myself.
Farther in are shelves full of dishes and glassware, perhaps saved for dinner parties. There are also large quantities of supplies—canned foods, bottled water, and paper goods.
I duck under pipes and go around cement pilings until I get to a small wine cellar. Must be some expensive shit in there, because there’s an iron door with a huge lock.
Besides all of that, there isn’t much else. No boxes to snoop through or bodies to discover. Just me, an old boiler, and a bunch of stuff I bet Arran doesn’t even use.
“Well, that was a waste of—” There’s a strange zapping sound at the same time that the lights above brighten, making me squint. Then it all goes pitch-black.
My eyes widen even though I can’t see a single thing. Out of instinct, I spread my legs slightly and my arms go out, as if I’m on a tightrope and need to balance because I can no longer perceive the floor.
