“Yeah?” I wait, holding my breath.
“It was years ago, back when you were kids. I walked into Mr. Blackthorn’s library in Portland with a tray of black tea we’d occasionally share and found him distraught. He had this littlemangled clay object, and he was muttering to himself, clearly frustrated.”
My heart flips.
“Whoa. What was he doing?”
I hear him drumming his fingers for a second before he answers. “If memory serves, he was sketching it. There was a small book in front of him with drawings, what looked like the little statue from several angles. It was a broken pair of small shoes.”
I’m nervous now, and it has nothing to do with the situation here.
“Did he… did he explain what it was all about? Anything to do with my grandmother?” I ask carefully.
“He had his secrets, and this was one more. I never asked, not directly, but he saw the look on my face. And he pulled out a small bottle of whiskey he kept in his drawer and spiked our tea. ‘Something to take the edge off being frozen,’ he said.” Holden pauses, his voice losing its edge. “It was summer. I noticed the phone was slightly lopsided in its cradle—like he’d slammed it down—so I fixed it. Probably another attempt to contact your mother.”
“Oh.”
My heart dives like an elevator. It wouldn’t be the first time Mom hung up on him. But even though I knew it happened, hearing what it was like, from his side—
My throat hurts, thick and raw.
A little girl squeals in the background then, and I hear Holden mutter a few stern words to her.
“Sorry. Regrettably, Miss Blackthorn, that’s all I can remember.”
“No, that’s super helpful. Thanks, Holden. I’ll let you go be a dad. If anything else comes up, I’ll give you a shout.”
I end the call and check my notifications before I start crying over family drama I’ll never fix.
But what’s up with those little shoes? And what’s waiting for me if I do get that glass door open?
The security feed from each camera still shows nothing out of the ordinary.
Small comfort.
To pass the time, which runs slower than molasses, I start cleaning the entire house from top to bottom. It’s kind of therapeutic since cleaning has always been a choice.
Growing up, we had hired help who came in every day, keeping the family properties sparkling.
I didn’t start doing my own deep cleanings until after college, even when I had my own people.
There’s a ritual feel to doing laundry, folding clothes, putting the dishes back in place, and giving the kitchen a good wipe-down.
The movement helps quiet my chattery brain.
After an hour of light stuff, I decide to go all-in, scrubbing the kitchen floor on my hands and knees with a tile cleaner I found under the sink.
The rubber gloves feel cold against my fingers. They keep me from obsessively checking my phone more often than every five or ten minutes.
Still nothing.
At the hour half mark, I text Kane to let him know I’m alive, then dive right back into scrubbing.
Once the floor rivals a mirror, I head into the living room and start wiping down the trim boards, cleaning the windows, and spraying a little fabric cleaner on the furniture.
That pulls up a surprising amount of filth.
Kids are precious and dirty.
