Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 135300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
“Nope. Never knew it was here. Nobody ever mentioned it.”
His eyes search mine, and I know we’re sharing the same thought.
This could be it.
The big secret I’m supposed to uncover to keep my grandfather happy in the Great Beyond.
“Okay, give me some space,” he says, rolling up his sleeves. “Let’s see if we can bust this open.”
“Dad, do you need a flashlight? I can use my phone.” Sophie already has her phone out.
“What do you think is in there?” Dan asks quietly, standing behind us. His eyes light up. “You think he left buried treasure?”
“Leonidas wasn’t a pirate, little man,” Kane says.
No, but between his love for sailing, Mediterranean adventures, and pulling together the largest private art collection in Maine, he had the heart of a buccaneer.
“I don’t think there’s real treasure down there. Not like antiques or valuables,” I say. “But it’s exciting, right?”
The kids nod briskly, their little eyes gleaming.
My nerves spark as Kane works to force the door open.
Yes, I’m letting my hopes gallop away from me.
I desperately, desperately want to find something meaningful.
Even if it’s just some sappy old box of fishing lures or something.
Then the door pops with a loud reverberation that stalls the air in my lungs.
“I’ve got the flashlight,” Dan calls, handing Kane the phone with its beam switched on. “Do you want me to go down first?”
“Nah, Bud. Relax,” Kane tells him, ruffling his hair. “I’ll go down there first and scope it out. No telling what we might find.”
“Snakes? Scorpions? Evil interdimensional clowns?” Dan suggests way too eagerly.
Kane throws him an indulgent look.
“How would scorpions survive in Maine? And It isn’t real! I told you on the way up. It’s just a book by Mr. King,” Sophie says firmly. Like she’s totally old enough to be sneaking horror classics.
I bite back a laugh.
“Yeah, well…” Dan scowls. “Maybe there’s a new species or somethin’. Or a crazy guy dressed up in a clown mask!”
“Stop trying to freak your sister out. We don’t need more uninvited guests around here,” Kane warns.
Good luck with that, Sophie tells her brother with a glance.
I love them so much.
Kane’s eyes flick to me wordlessly. He rolls his eyes, but he smiles before a grave look falls over his face.
One good, careful grip from the sides lets him lever the door open.
A dull blast of stale air greets us, along with a set of concrete stairs going down into the hole.
“Wait here,” he tells the kids, who are still bickering about the possibility of snakes and bears down there.
I follow Kane down slowly, pressing one hand to the wall for support since there’s no railing.
His flashlight illuminates worn brick walls.
It’s sturdy enough, by the look of it, aside from a few loose bricks.
No snakes or spiders or bears.
Oh, my.
“Looks like underground storage,” Kane muses when he reaches the bottom, swinging the light around. He’s so tall his head almost brushes the ceiling. “Or maybe a fifties bomb shelter? They were popular, even in little towns like this.”
“Gramps wasn’t much of a prepper. It’s weird that it’s here.” I swipe a finger along the rough brick.
Slightly damp, but not as bad as I thought it would be.
The beam swings again, revealing a small, unfinished statue on a long table beside the stairs. The only thing in the room.
My pulse slows.
“You recognize that?” he says.
It’s like a massive workbench with a lamp and an old leather chair pushed in front of it. Of course the lamp doesn’t work, and neither does the small switch on the wall Kane tries for the overhead light.
At first, I’m not sure what I’m seeing.
There are drawings of tiny shoes.
A small box of round objects, either clay or stone. Tools for sculpting, I think. A few round things that vaguely look like shoes, but small and indistinct, no bigger than my palm.
Then on the other side—a bigger statue.
People.
It’s a couple locked in a loving embrace.
“Hold up. I think…” I step closer, and Kane hands me the flashlight. “I think that’s Gramps?” Despite being incomplete, I recognize my grandfather’s younger profile in the clay. “Holy crap. Was this my grams’ workshop?”
“Could be. You said she painted, didn’t she?”
“Yeah, and I knew that. But nobody ever said a word about her sculpting.” I trace the unfinished model gingerly.
This isn’t some deep dark secret, no, but it feels like I’m closing in on some hidden truth.
“They look happy,” I whisper. Then I look at the pile of little clay statues again and frown. “The little shoes, I don’t get. They were in that painting we found in the attic, too, what looked like baby shoes. I wonder if it’s part of a bigger project Grams was working on…”
“Is this what your granddad wanted? The stuff he left you?”
“Maybe?” There’s hope in my voice, but I’m not convinced.
Not yet.
If these odd, unfinished statues are the big finale, it feels unsatisfying.