CLARA
“Please, Margot, you have to let us go.”
I try to plead with her. Maybe she’ll come through for us, for once. Bill told the sheriff that she’s loyal, but maybe she’ll choose a different path.
“You don’t have to tell anyone that you saw us,” I add.
“Don’t be silly,” she says. “No one knows I’m up here.”
I stare at her for a moment. “What?”
“This is our summer house, Clara. I know every way in and out of this place. Carter and I used to slip in and out all the time, especially during his high school years. He’d sneak out in the middle of the night to hang with Jace, Damon, and Stephan. And I’d piggyback because I had such a crush on your brother.”
Suddenly, a different image of the whole dynamic comes into focus.
Margot no longer strikes me as an extension of Bill Lockwood but as the doe-eyed girl who fell in love with Stephan. They were thick as thieves growing up. There was a time when I was actually fond of her.
“What are you trying to tell me?” I ask with a trembling voice as Matty quietly clings to me.
“Are we still on a secret mission, Momma?” he whispers.
Margot gives him a weak smile. “We sure are, kiddo.”
“Okay, I’m confused. You left us hanging the other day?—”
“I didn’t know how to react,” she cuts me off. “He’s still my father. I couldn’t just turn against him. I didn’t believe you at first.”
“And now do you believe me?”
She nods. “I’m sorry. And I will make it up to you and Matty, provided we get you out of here first. So come on. Let’s go before his goons notice my face on the security cameras.”
“I thought you said you know every way in and out of this place.”
“I do, but I couldn’t evade every single camera,” she says. “The old man beefed up the security measures this past year, it seems. But it’s okay. I can still get you both out before the Feds get here.”
“The Feds?”
Margot grins broadly. “Did you really think Carter would take any of this sitting down, Clara? The guys are coming, but we need to make sure you’re off the property when SWAT comes banging down the doors and things get hairy.”
“Matty, honey, our secret mission is on,” I tell my boy. “You need to hold me tight and not let go, no matter what. Okay?”
“Okay, Momma.”
“God, he is such a good boy,” Margot sighs, smiling.
She exits the room first, and I follow. We move through the hallway, light on our feet and quiet as mice as we head for the service stairs.
“Through here,” she whispers as she opens a door to our left just before the staircase unwinds ahead.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“Our father didn’t build this house. It’s a late-nineteenth-century construction,” she explains. “Used by bootleggers to smuggle wine and port through the county.”
I follow her into the guest room.
It’s quaint. Rustic plaid textiles are splayed across the bed. The walls are white, with elegant ceiling lights and a tasteful mishmash of country chic that works well with an abundance of natural light. But it’s the antique dresser that’s got Margot’s attention.
“Problem is, I haven’t used this hatch in a while, so I don’t know if it’s still in good condition or not,” she says, then opens the dresser and yanks the clothes out, throwing them on the bed.
