Page 25 of Gather the Storm

Okay, youarea pampered little princess, but it’s not like you haven’t suffered, it’s not like you’ve never lost anything, like you’ve never been through anything.

And then, my mom’s voice:you’re stronger than you know, Daisy.

For a second, it was like she was there next to me. Instead of driving the Mustang, I was sitting in the passenger seat, looking over at her as she drove, her hair flying free instead of perfectly styled the way my dad liked it, a smile cracking through the tension she usually wore like a mask.

You’re stronger than you know, Daisy.

It was something she’d always said when I was struggling with something, and now, I could hear her voice as clear as a bell.

I could do this. It wasmyhouse. I wasn’t going to let Jace intimidate me.

Technically he worked for me.

(Okay, I knew Jace would never,eversubmit himself to something as mundane as working for anyone, especially me,but it was technically true since I was giving them free room and board in exchange for their help.)

I took another deep breath and parked next to Jace’s bike. I didn’t know much about motorcycles, but it looked like the same one he’d been driving in high school, a sleek red and black sports bike that looked both sexy and dangerous.

Kind of like Jace.

At a time when most of the kids were lucky to have an old car, Jace had been the stuff of every fantasy, rolling up on the noisy beast every morning. Blake had made fun of him, acting like it was a joke, but deep down I’d sensed that Blake was jealous.

That Blake saw himself as something curated and overly sanitized compared to Jace’s wild darkness.

I looked up at the house through the Mustang’s windshield, giving myself another minute to get my head around the idea of going inside when Jace was the only one in there.

The house was huge, and I knew from the research I’d done at the town historical society that it was built in 1880 in the Victorian style, but with an imposing stone facade, not the elaborate painted detail of the Victorian Painted Ladies.

It had three floors, not including the attic, the roof a series of steeply gabled peaks, chimneys announcing the house’s eight fireplaces. A wide concrete porch ran the length of the front of the house, sheltered not by a roof but by the second story of the house, which hung above it.

Not going to lie: it looked spooky, like for sure it was haunted by some old woman who wandered the halls in a white nightgown, even though I’d never seen or heard anything like that.

It was what the kids in Blackwell Falls said. I knew because I’d heard them say it, and when I was a kid, back before I knew how lucky I was to inherit it, I’d pretended to be scared too,pretended not to know who owned it when my mother talked about it constantly, telling me one day it would be mine.

Back then, I hadn’t wanted it, but that had changed as I got older, especially after she died and I realized the old house was one of my last tangible connections to her and the Mercers, which had been her last name before she married my dad.

It was going to be incredible once it was fixed up, and I got out of the car and took in the overgrown grounds. I’d have to draw up a landscaping plan too, which was definitely not my specialty.

I felt the crushing hand of overwhelm, the doubts clamoring to be heard in the back of my mind, but I pushed them all down. In two years — three tops — the house would be done.

And I’d know long before then if Jace, Wolf, and Otis had killed Blake.

I got my first bag out of the trunk and started for the house, the gravel drive crunching under my feet. I’d already brought a few boxes of supplies to the house, knowing I’d need them whether Jace, Wolf, and Otis agreed to help me or not.

I walked over the area I thought contained a path to the house and was glad I’d thought to hire someone to mow down the overgrowth. The path was still covered by wild grass and weeds, but at least it wasn’t knee high.

The stone steps leading to the porch were still intact and I made my way over the cracked concrete porch toward the house’s carved wooden doors. One of them was unlocked, and I pushed it open and stepped into the foyer.

The ceilings soared above me, the original chandelier dripping dusty crystals in the shadowed light of the room. Most of the windows were still covered with moth-eaten draperies, and I made note to take those down first, let in some light.

I set down my bag and took in the cracked and crumbling plaster, then called out.

“Jace?” My voice practically echoed in the big empty house.

I wandered the main floor — the parlor where we’d met the night before, two more living areas, a library (according to my mom’s will, the books had long ago been packed and stored in a climate-controlled storage facility), three bathrooms, a huge but outdated kitchen, and a cavernous room at the back of the house that had once been a ballroom.

No sign of Jace.

I sighed and headed for the staircase in the kitchen. Once used by servants ferrying food and drinks to the upper floors, the stairs were hidden behind a paneled wall.

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