He gives a short laugh. “You shouldn’t care about me, Jane. You really shouldn’t. One woman has already died. I wouldn’t want that to happen to you.”
Cold races over my arms. It has nothing to do with the rain. “Who? Paige’s mom?”
“Go inside.”
I hold out the blanket, which is heavy with rainwater. I can be stubborn, too. “Take it.”
“You aren’t paid to take care of me. You’re paid to take care of Paige.”
But you’re hurting, I want to say. You’re hurting and grieving just as badly as she is. Maybe more. His pain isn’t as simple as missing his brother and his sister-in-law. There’s something darker happening here. I feel its energy pulsing through the house. As if it’s haunted, not with ghosts but with memories. “Come inside.”
His gaze holds mine for an unbroken moment. In that time I see his pain. He means what he says. He feels responsible for someone’s death. I’m not afraid of him, though.
Maybe that will be the death of me.
CHAPTER SIX
The next day after lunch I pull out her workbook. Pencils. Erasers. And a bright, fake smile that she can see right through. “We really need to do some schoolwork, Paige.”
She continues sorting through the real estate cards. St. James Place. Tennessee Avenue. New York Place. Then, Connecticut Avenue, Vermont Avenue, Oriental Avenue. She likes grouping them. At first I thought it was a child’s natural instinct to connect them by color. It didn’t take me long after playing with her to realize it has more to do with strategy. When you have a monopoly on a single color, it becomes harder for the opponent (in other words, me) to avoid them. She can also build houses and hotels that way, making it more likely she’ll bankrupt me in a single roll of the dice. The kitten has curled up to nap in the black plastic container that used to hold the small silver game markers.
“Paige? I know you don’t like it, but we have to do it.”
“Why do I even need school?”
That’s a tricky question. Because the law requires children to go to school. Because it’s my job to make sure she does the work. Neither of those answers are likely to satisfy a defiant six year old. “So you can learn about the world around us.”
That doesn’t even earn me a glance. Baltic Avenue. Mediterranean Avenue. She can barely restrain her glee when she lands on one of those. Bloodthirsty little thing.
“I’m hungry,” she says.
“We just ate.”
“I’m still hungry.”
There wasn’t a large amount of the lobster stew today. The bowl is empty, and Mrs. Fairfax already left for the day. “Do you want a Pop-Tart?”
“No,” she says, drawing out the word. “Mac and cheese.”
“Okay.” I’m no chef, but I can make this happen with a blue box. I head into the kitchen and pull out the butter, the milk. I’m heating up water in the pan when I peek back into the dining room. Empty. The real estate cards fan out on the table.
There’s no Paige in sight. No kitten, either.
Shit. It’s not the first time she’s snuck from the room. She’s quiet and stealthy, but usually I’m able to keep track of her. Aside from folding her laundry and organizing the papers for her schoolwork, it’s my only job. Now she’s gone.
Probably because I asked her to do schoolwork. This isn’t a coincidence.
I head down the expansive hallway, peeking into each of the large sitting areas and come up empty. Hmm. Next I go upstairs to her room to see if she decided to curl up in bed.
Her room is empty.
The room next door that holds her desk—also empty.
I try a few of the doors since I’m up here and find only spare rooms like mine. A few of the doors are locked. And in one last, random attempt, I peek into my own room. Nope, no one here. I even check the bathroom, in case Paige brought the kitten here to use the litter box.
From here I can see through the window to the outside.
Rain comes down in thick, uneven droplets.
Where could she be?
In a terrible but necessary repeat, I check all the same places again. The room where I left her—this time, under the couch and behind the armoire. The other rooms, calling her name. The dining room. The kitchen.
“Kitten,” I call in a high voice. “Kitten, where are you?”
Paige has refused to name the kitten, and I can’t do it since I already offered her the privilege. So the kitten is called kitten. Sometimes she meows when you call her that.
Silence. It’s like I’m in the house alone.
A shiver runs down my spine.
I go upstairs again and check her bedroom, her school room, my bedroom. I even check the strange bedroom with the watch and teacup—empty. I break the rules and check the attic. Nothing.
Finally, in desperation, I reach Mr. Rochester’s study door.
I hear a low voice coming through. “There’s no way I can make it to check the building myself. I don’t care how important it is. It’s not happening. I’m stuck here in goddamn Maine on a goddamn life raft, because it doesn’t ever stop raining. So you and the rest of those lawyers getting paid five hundred dollars an hour will just have to do your fucking jobs and figure it out.”
I knock on the ornately carved door and open.
He turns to face me. “What?” he asks, brusque and annoyed.
“Have you seen Paige?” I ask, knowing that he’ll censure me for losing track of her. And worse, he should censure me. I know better than to leave her alone for even a minute. An ordinary six-year-old girl? Sure. She could survive on her own while you make mac and cheese. One reeling from loss and angry at the world? That’s a different story.
“You don’t know where she is?” he asks, slamming his phone on the desk. “You misplaced her like a sock in the goddamn dryer? Please explain to me what I’m paying you for.”
“Listen. You can be angry at me, you can hate me. You can fire me, but right now I just need to find her. So I’m assuming you haven’t seen her. I’ll keep looking.”
He lets out a growl of frustration and follows me through the hallway and down the stairs. “Did you check the living room with the fireplace? She likes to hide underneath the chairs there.”
“Already checked.”
“What about the pantry? Those Pop-Tarts—”
“I came from the kitchen. She’s not there.”
“Her room? She can slip away and end up taking a nap.”
I whirl on him. “So what you’re saying is that you already know she has a habit of sneaking away and hiding, and you didn’t bother to warn me about it?”
He looks grim. “I thought it was only me she’d hide from.”
The innate sadness of that statement makes my heart clench. But the unease I’ve been feeling at her absence turns into acute worry. The fact that she has a history of hiding makes it clear she’s an expert at this. Maybe she’s decided to try a new hiding spot.
I glance again at the windows. “What if she went outside?”
“It’s freezing out there.”
“She’s—” My voice breaks. “She’s hurting. She’s beyond hurting. She’s numb with it. When you’re grieving like that, you can’t feel physical pain the same way.”