Maggie snorted at the thought and let herself in the front door. She was here because she’d been fascinated by the big house on the hill and had wondered what kind of people would live there. If she could ever be one of those people.
That wasn’t fate. That was drive. There was a distinct difference.
Phone in hand, she made a note to replace the bulbs in the exterior lights on the porch. After a night out with Silas, of interesting conversations and being surrounded by people, the three empty stories felt particularly tomb-like. So she cued up a playlist and went upstairs to change into her comfiest pajamas.
Okay, fine. Her only pajamas. They had hammers and saws on them and had been a gift from a viewer.
Deciding to squeeze in an hour of work before calling it a night, she headed back downstairs. She grabbed a tall glass of water and turned on the desk lamp in her office. It was a heavy thing with a huge stained-glass shade that cast an unnatural red and green glow around the room.
She had a power washer scheduled for drop-off in the morning, and Jim would be swinging by to do a few hours of wiring while the house was quieter. Maybe she could set aside a half hour or so to dig into the Campbell family research again.
Her phone vibrated on the table next to her, and she peeked at the screen.
Silas: Just in case there was any question, I’ll be looking up at the ceiling and thinking about you all night.
“Ooof,” she said, rubbing a hand over her heart. She needed to be a hell of a lot more careful where Silas Wright was concerned. The man could charm his way into places he had no right being. Including her pants.
Another message came in while she was still swooning. It was a GIF of Keanu Reeves in fake glasses blowing a kiss.
Silas: Shit. Sorry. Still figuring this GIF thing out. Meant to send this one.
A GIF of a teddy bear being crushed by hearts arrived next.
Maggie was debating whether or not to text the man back when she caught a glimpse of headlights as they shone through the glass at the front of the house. Instinctively, she turned down her music and then heard the crunch of gravel.
It was after ten. Too late for a neighbor dropping by. She turned off the light.
The engine cut out front, and she eased into the hallway. Regretting that she’d left her shoes upstairs, she ducked barefoot into the kitchen and grabbed the girthy flashlight she’d used to examine the innards of the bulkhead that the upper cabinets had been attached to.
There were footsteps on the porch. More than one person from the sounds of it. She debated for a hot second and then decided to go for the flank. She stole into the sunporch, unlocked the door, and tiptoed out onto the terrace.
If she snuck around to the front, it gave her the opportunity to scare the shit out of the trespassers. She was in the process of ninja-ing her way along the side of the house when she stubbed her toe on a hunk of slate.
It hurt. Badly. Hopping and flailing, she suffered in silence until the pain started to subside. This was why shoes existed. She lived in a construction zone, for Christ’s sake. She knew better.
Cursing under her breath, she jogged with high knees to the far end of the porch and then remembered the short part of the porch’s L didn’t have its own stairs. A design flaw in her opinion. As quietly as she could, Maggie climbed up and over the railing, her toe still throbbing.
“Of course it’s locked. Someone else owns the place now,” a voice whispered loudly from around the corner.
She edged up against the house and hoped to hell none of the floorboards would give her away.
“It’s not like they’re living here now,” another, more surly, voice whined. “This place is a shithole. You’d have to be a complete freak to move into it like this.”
Maggie took offense.
“Guys, I told you I heard it’s some big deal who bought the place,” a third voice, deeper and softer, said. “She’s probably got a security system. Let’s just go someplace else.”
Maggie chanced a peek around the corner, and in the scant moonlight, she recognized the small group of teens from the café during her first night in town.
Cody, the only name she knew, had his hands in his pockets and was still on the steps.
The rest of them were on the porch. Her porch.
Cody’s flannel-wearing pal with homemade tattoos feigned a tap dance and held up both middle fingers. “Fuck off, security cameras,” he sang. Maggie wondered if he’d had formal dance training as a kid or if he’d studied ironically for just such an occasion.
“Ugh! Why do we even come here?” a girl in jeans and a sweatshirt six times bigger than it needed to be pouted as she took out a tube of too-dark lipstick and started to write on the front window.