safely in bed with her warming blanket heating the sheets, a good book in her hand, a hot mug of tea on her nightstand.
But then…no Jack Brattle scoop. After years of an unsatisfying career fund-raising while writing too-often rejected magazine articles and pieces for her neighborhood paper on the side, she’d managed to land a job in journalism, which she’d wanted since she was a kid and had written and produced her own paper: Hannah’s Daily News, circulation, approximately four, including herself; number of issues: twenty. She still had them somewhere.
Another flash of lightning, a clap of thunder. The sleet rattled her roof in earnest now—could it really hail during a snowstorm?
She guided Matilda around the circular driveway, came to a stop opposite the grand front steps, complete with stone Grecian urns. Snow obscured the view, but it wasn’t hard to tell the house was a colossal Colonial.
This wasn’t how the other half lived, this was how the other millionth lived.
So…
Car in Park, she sat for a minute before switching off the engine. She really didn’t want to drive all the way back to Philly in this mess. The roads were dangerous and the trip could take hours. Options were either to wait out the storm right here in Matilda…she had plenty of gas to run the heater periodically…or see if anyone was home. No lamps glowed in any windows, at least not in the front of the house, at least as far as she could see. The light shining over the entrance could be on a timer.
Nothing ventured…
She pulled the handle and nearly had her arm torn off as a gust of wind wrenched Matilda’s door wide open. Her excitement gave way to jitters. This storm took itself quite seriously. Now she hoped someone was home, not only for the sake of her immortality-guaranteeing article, but to make sure she survived this.
Up the steps, she nearly slipped twice, squinting through the sting of ice, finally reaching the front door. Holding her breath, she rang the bell, then crossed her fingers for good measure and crossed her arms over her chest, strands of her ruined upsweep whipping her cheek, earrings turning into tiny daggers repeatedly flung at her neck. Another gust rocked her back on her probably ruined heels. Hannah made a grab at the house’s front-door handle and miraculously stayed upright.
This was not that much fun. At least not yet.
Another poke at the bell, another shivery icy minute or so waiting, though by now she knew it was ludicrous. On New Year’s Eve with the master abroad any remaining staff would have the night off, and if there were some type of butler or housekeeper on duty, he-she would have answered by now.
She stepped away and craned up at the facade to see if any lights had gone on in response to her ring. Though housekeeper-butler rooms would be in the back, wouldn’t they? She wasn’t that up on her mansion architecture.
A horrifically bright flash of lightning, a massive crack of thunder, a truly terrifying assault of wind. Hannah yelled and leapt toward the door, pressing herself against it for the tiny bit of shelter theoretically offered by the ledge above.
Then the odd impression of something dark swooping through the air in her peripheral vision, and the open-mouthed disbelief as the limb of a tree—large enough to be a tree itself—landed on her car.
Crash.
Hannah stared. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Oh, Matilda.
Her roof and hood were crumpled down to the seats, the windshield smashed. If Hannah had still been inside, she could be dead now.
Dear God. Delayed shock hit, funny breathing and all-over-body shaking that wasn’t only from the cold this time. This was really, really not good. Really. When was she going to learn to curb her impulsive behavior? She knew this storm was coming. Jack Brattle’s estate was not going to disappear overnight. Her parents and friends would say it again. How many times do we have to tell you, look before you leap? Think before you act.
Think, period.
Okay, okay. Staying calm. She had other more important things to worry about. Like not freezing to death.
Down the treacherous steps again, she tugged at poor sweet Matilda’s door. It didn’t budge. Slipping and sliding her way around to the other side, she pushed her arm through cold scratching branches to yank on the other door, even knowing the frame was too crunched to be able to open.
Oh Cheez Whiz. Her evening bag containing her Black-Berry was still in that car. Her GPS system would broadcast her location, but not until someone realized she was missing and tried to find her. Why had she told Dad she was already home safely?
Because he had enough to worry about.
She staggered back up the steps, huddled against the house’s cold uncaring door again. Not for the first time she envied her mother and father their renewed commitment to each other after they got their lives back on track, their mutual caring and support. If she had someone now, the kind of man she dreamed about finding, he’d stop at nothing to bring her home safely.
Or he would have stopped her being such an idiot coming here tonight in the first place, and she’d be home safely in bed with him now, ringing in the New Year in one of her very favorite ways.
Tears came to her eyes and she blinked them away in disgust. Okay, game plan. She was responsible for herself and had been as far back as she could remember. Maybe there was a service entrance? Maybe someone in the house would hear her ring or knock from there? Maybe there was a cottage behind the house she could break into, or maybe her amazing luck would hold and there’d be a garage with the door left coincidentally open…
Oh dear.
Another flash of lightning. Hannah turned away from it, burying her face in her hands, shoulders hunched, waiting for the smash of thunder.
Boom. More wind. Sleet pelting her back.
“Stop.” She grabbed the door handle and twisted desperately, knowing it would be locked and the gesture was completely—
The handle turned.
The door swung open.
She tumbled in, gasping with surprise, then relief, slammed the door behind her, closing out the terrible storm.
Did that really just happen?
Who the hell went abroad and left his front door open? More than that, what house of this size and value didn’t have a dead bolt and a security system? She waited with held breath for the ear-splitting shriek of an alarm. Whoop-whoop, intruder alert.
Nothing.
Maybe he had a system that only sounded at the police station. One could only hope. Rescue would be welcome if the cops took long enough so she had plenty of time to look around. Because it was slowly dawning on her, now she’d escaped the possibility of hypothermia, that she could very well be in Jack Brattle’s house.
Of course it was possible the door was open because someone had already broken in. Maybe some terribly dangerous criminal was right now prowling the floors above her.
She listened, listened some more, kept listening…and heard nothing, besides the distant hum of the heating system. Really, what kind of idiot would be out on a night like this?
Ha ha ha.
Maybe someone was asleep upstairs? Maybe he or she forgot to lock the gate and the front door after a particularly fun party?
“Hello?” She wandered closer to the staircase, barely visible from the light coming in through the front windows. “Hello?”
Nothing. She climbed halfway up, peering into the darkness of the second floor, and prepared to shout as loudly as she could. “Anyone home?”
Still nothing.
Most likely careless—or tipsy—staff or service people were responsible for the unlocked entrances. Maybe they’d intended to come right back and the