Page 67 of The Sugar Maple Inn

Reality could wait a little longer.

Twenty-Five

Reese

The fog rolled in thick while they lay tangled in the sheets a few hours later, the world beyond the tower windows disappearing completely. Gray and white erasing everything—the island, the lake, even the sense of where they were. Could’ve been floating in clouds, for all Reese could tell. At some point in the few hours they’d been in bed, his hands and mouth on hers, hers on him, Abe had called up with an update, saying the fog wasn’t letting go and they might need to spend another night up there.

“We’re properly stranded now,” Grace said, propped up on one elbow, hair wild around her face. “Even if the storm’s over, no one’s crossing in this.”

“Guess we’ll have to entertain ourselves, discover more ‘everything buts.’ ” Reese ran a hand down her bare back, enjoying the way she shivered at his touch.

She swatted him away. “Down, boy. Some of us need recovery time.”

“Fair.” He grinned. “Though for the record, you were the one who—”

“Do not finish that sentence.”

Reese laughed, sitting up and stretching as he looked around the tower room. The place was a wreck, sheets pulled half off the bed, candles burned down to stubs. Then he noticed something in the ceiling above them—

“There’s a hatch,” he said.

Grace followed his gaze. “Probably just goes to the roof.”

“Or an attic.” Reese was already getting up, pulling on his sweats. “Let’s check it out.”

“You want to explore a creepy attic? In a tower? During fog? Have you never seen a horror movie?”

“Seen plenty. The folks who stay in bed are always the ones who die first.”

“Pretty sure it’s the ones who investigate strange noises who die first.”

“Guess we’ll find out.” Reese dragged a chair under the hatch. “You coming or staying?”

Grace sighed, wrapping the sheet around herself. “If we die, I’m haunting you.”

“Deal.”

The hatch opened with a groan and dust cascaded down, making Grace sneeze. Adorable. Reese pulled himself up into darkness, using his core strength to lever his body through the opening. Then he found a light switch and turned it on. It illuminated a drop-down ladder, so he unfolded it for Grace and helped her up.

The attic was massive, the entire footprint of the tower, peaked ceiling giving it cathedral-like height in the center. Trunks with tarnished brass corners sat beneath the eaves, their leather straps cracked and curling. There were rolled-up fishing nets stiff with salt, an old cedar chest half-buried under moth-eaten quilts, and a rocking horse missing one glass eye. In the far corner, a stack of mismatched picture frames leaned against a beam, their portraits long removed, leaving only warped backing boards and brittle nails.

Reese also spotted boxes labeled “Blackwell Family—1920s” against the far wall. They could be useful. Maybe featured some information about the space beneath these foundations. That was where he needed to be. That was what he’d come for.

Grace moved toward the nearest trunk, curiosity overriding caution. “Reese. Reese. Look at this.”

He turned to see Grace holding up a dress. Deep navy-blue velvet with intricate beading. Very Great Gatsby.

“There’s a whole trunk of them,” Grace said, already diving back in like she’d found treasure. “Look! Suits, dresses, even shoes. The Blackwells kept everything.”

She pulled out a man’s suit. Three-piece. Pinstriped. The kind gangsters wore in old photos. Or bootleggers, more likely, given this was a lakeside inn during Prohibition.

“You have to try this on.” She held it up against him, checking the fit.

He should say no. Should be going through those boxes. Finding answers.

But Grace was looking at him like that—all lit up and excited—and something in him just…gave.

“All right,” he said. “But you’re wearing the dress.”