hiccup of surprise rises in my chest. “My father was still paying you?”
“He sure was. First my grandfather, then me. Oh, and Mrs. Ditmer. I mow the grass, do some landscaping, pop in once a week to make sure nothing’s wrong with the house. Elsa—that’s Mrs. Ditmer—came in every month to do a good cleaning. Her daughter does it now that Elsa’s infirm, to put it kindly.”
“She’s ill?”
“Only in the head.” Dane uses an index finger to tap his temple. “Alzheimer’s. The poor woman. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. But your father kept us all on and always made sure to check in on me whenever he was here.”
Another surprise. One that makes me release my half of the gate, letting it swing shut again. “My father came here?”
“He did.”
“A lot?”
“Not often, no,” Dane says. “Just once a year.”
I remain completely still, aware of the cocked-headed stare Dane is giving me but unable to do anything about it. Shock has left me motionless.
My father came back here once a year.
Despite vowing never to return.
Despite begging me on his deathbed to do the same.
These visits go against everything I was told about Baneberry Hall. That it was off-limits to my family. That it was a place where nothing good survived. That I needed to stay away.
It’s not safe there. Not for you.
Why did my father think it was safe for him to return and not me? Why didn’t he mention—not even once—that he still owned Baneberry Hall and came back here regularly?
Dane keeps on giving me that funny look. Part curiosity, part concern. I manage to cut through my shock long enough to ask a follow-up question.
“When was the last time he was here?”
“Last summer,” Dane says. “He always came on the same date—July 15.”
Yet another shock. A giant wallop that pushes me back onto my heels. I grip the gate for support, my numb fingers snaking around its wrought-iron curlicues.
“You okay there, Maggie?” Dane says.
“Yes,” I mutter, although I’m not sure I am. July 15 was the night my family left Baneberry Hall. That can’t be a coincidence, even though I have no idea what it means. I try to think of a logical reason why my father would return only on that infamous date, but I come up empty.
“How long would he stay?” I say.
“Just one night,” Dane says. “He’d arrive late and leave early the next day. After the first couple of years, I knew the routine like clockwork. I’d have the gate open and waiting for him when he got here, and then I’d close it back up when his car drove by the next morning.”
“Did he ever tell you what he was doing here?”
“He never volunteered, and I never asked,” Dane says. “Didn’t seem to be any business of mine. And not that yours is, either, but I gotta ask—”
“What the hell I’m doing here?”
“I was going to phrase it a bit more delicately, but since you put it that way, why the hell are you here?”
Dane shoots a glance toward the back of my pickup. Hidden under a canvas tarp are boxes of supplies, several tool kits, and enough power tools to supply a minor construction site. Table saw. Power saw. Drill. Sander. All that’s missing is a jackhammer, although I know where to get one if the need arises.
“I’m here to check out the house, renovate the parts that need it, and prepare it for sale.”
“The house is in fine shape,” Dane says. “The foundation is solid, and the structure’s sound. It’s got good bones, as they say. It could use some sprucing up, of course. Then again, so could I.”
He gives me a sly, self-deprecating grin, making it clear he knows how handsome he is. I bet he’s used to making the women of Bartleby swoon. Unfortunately for him, I’m not from these parts.
“Do you think the house can sell?” I reply, all business.
“A place like that? With a bit of mystery surrounding it? Oh, it’ll sell. Although you might want to be careful about who you sell it to. Most folks here wouldn’t be too pleased to see it turned into a tourist attraction.”
“The citizens of Bartleby hate my father’s book that much, do they?”
“They despise it,” Dane says, hissing the word like it’s a bad taste he wants off his tongue. “Most folks wish it had never been written.”
I can’t say I blame them. I once told Allie that living in the Book’s shadow felt like having a