CHAPTER FOUR
Mr. Rochester never appears for dinner. I heat the food for him and even set a plate when Paige and I sat down to eat, but he never shows up. After dinner I tackle the alarmingly large pile of dirty laundry in Paige’s closet, and make it my goal to organize her clothes. “Paige. Where is the washing machine?”
“I dunno.”
“Then how do you clean your clothes?”
Wide eyes. “Mommy did that.”
It’s only been a few months since her mother died. It’s a sensitive issue, and I wouldn’t normally press, but we do need clean clothes. Especially if they haven’t been cleaned in all that time. “Your mommy would walk around with a laundry basket, right? Where did she go with it?”
A stiff shrug.
I’m going to need my clothes cleaned at some point. Only a few pairs of jeans and shirts fit into my carry-on suitcase. More important than that, however, is cleaning Paige’s clothes. It’s part of my job to take care of her. “Can you help me find it?”
“A washing machine?”
“Mhmm. A big white machine that looks like a fridge only shorter.” My apartment back in Houston doesn’t have one. I walk three blocks with a garbage bag to the washeteria twice a week. I hope I don’t have to trek down this mountain with laundry to make this happen.
She looks reluctant to leave the couch, which I understand. The wind whistles through the cracks on the large windows. Heavy clouds threaten to unleash more rain.
We check the kitchen, checking for some small door leading to a laundry room.
We walk through the dining room and living rooms, where clearly a washer and dryer don’t belong.
We reach the back of the house which leads to a garage. There’s a car that looks low and sleek, a hint of red paint peeking out from beneath a gray plastic cover. There’s also a black SUV that looks like it would have no trouble on the slippery roads up and down the mountain. And there’s the four-wheeler with its large grippy wheels and giant headlights, now dark.
This should be pay dirt. It’s the perfect place for a washer and dryer. There’s lots of room, lots of concrete, and insulation from the house to keep the sound from getting inside. Nope. I cover the whole perimeter but don’t find anything.
When I reach the door again, Paige is gone. She was standing right here.
“Paige?”
The shadows seem longer than before. Darker.
I retrace my steps down the hallway. A door is left ajar. Was that closed before? I open and reveal a stairway leading into inky blackness. A basement. Why didn’t I think of that? We don’t have basements in Houston. Something about being at sea level. But of course we’re not at sea level here. In fact we’re far above the sea on a cliff.
“Paige?”
Did she go back to the kitchen? Did she go to her room? She’s padding around the house in her nightgown. There’s a distinct chill coming from the basement. I don’t want to go down there. It’s a feeling. A sense of dread.
Something ephemeral pulls me down the stairs.
Step after step onto creaking wooden stairs.
My bare foot touches the floor. Cold concrete registers before something bright jumps out at me—a wild animal with blonde hair and a mischievous grin. “Boo!” she says.
My heart thumps in wild disarray. “Oh my God.”
“Can I have a Pop-Tart?”
I let out a shuddery breath. “You scared me. And you already ate dinner.”
“I’m still hungry.”
“Is this where the washer and dryer are? Down here?”
She shrugs and then skips up the steps, presumably to go in search of Pop-Tarts. Frankly, I’m going to need a Pop-Tart after this. That was honestly terrifying. I fumble my hand along the wall, picking up cobwebs as I go, before I find the light switch. They blink on with brightness that makes me squint, revealing a large workroom with benches, saws, and other tools.
And in the corner, an ancient-looking washer and dryer.
I start a load of laundry and pile up the rest around the washing machine like a shrine to cleanliness. It will probably take a few days to get everything clean and folded.
Paige allows herself to be wrangled after eating one and a half strawberry Pop-Tarts. We brush her teeth—again, since she ate. And I put her to bed after reading three books to her.
It was a hard first day of work, but relatively successful I think?
There’s only one problem.
It’s freezing cold in my room.
Even wearing all the layers of clothes I brought with me, I’m still shivering. They just don’t make winter clothes for Houston. We’d only use them two days out of the year anyway. When I was moving around, making food for Paige or cleaning after her, I was warm enough.
It’s only when I’m in my room at night that I turn into a block of ice.
I could ask Mr. Rochester for an extra blanket tomorrow.
But I’m freezing cold now.
I’m shivering in the bed, unable to sleep. For hours.
At this rate I’m going to be a zombie tomorrow.
My nightgown is a pale gray shift that does little against the chill. I pad into the hallway. Everything’s dark. Quiet. I know better than to wake anyone up.
This is a wealthy house, though. A well-stocked house. There ought to be a linen closet somewhere with an extra blanket. Maybe even a fluffy pair of socks, though that might be wishful thinking.
Though there wasn’t one downstairs when I was searching for the washing machine. Nothing that I can remember in the kitchen, the dining room, the living room, the garage, or even the basement.
That leaves this second floor to search.
I open the door next to mine. It reveals a room that’s much larger, with a massive bed in the middle. It feels like I walked into the middle of someone’s room—not another guest room like mine. There’s a man’s watch on the nightstand. So maybe this is Mr. Rochester’s room? But there’s a teacup on the other side of the bed, as if a woman also lives here.
A jacket is slung over an armchair. It’s very casual. The way someone would leave their room if they intended to be back soon, but there’s a staleness to the air. The blanket on the bed—no one’s using that. Shadows from clothes peek out of the closet, but it feels wrong to touch anything here, a little bit like walking on a grave.
I creep back out quietly and close the door.
The next room is clearly someone’s study. There’s a large wooden desk engraved with scrolls, tall built-in bookshelves, and a large window. It draws me close until I’m gazing out at the most gorgeous view. It’s a clear view of the cliff—the land around the house, the growth of rock, and the spread of water. There’s a plate with leftover lasagna. I’m guessing this is Mr. Rochester’s office. He must have eaten here after we were done. How sad.
Why doesn’t he join us?
The final door’s at the end of the hallway. I turn the knob carefully, half expecting someone to appear. Mr. Rochester, most likely. It’s dim. Empty. A stairwell.
Not a linen closet. I should move on to the other side of the house, but I’m drawn by the heat coming down through the narrow passageway. I’m drawn by curiosity. Sturdy wooden steps lead me to a finished attic. There’s a metal bedframe in the corner, as if this was once used as a bedroom, but since then someone has added boxes and boxes of storage. There are shadows of old baby toys—a mechanical swing and a bouncer. They must have been Paige’s.