Private Property (Rochester Trilogy 1)

“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.