Private Property (Rochester Trilogy 1)

She runs off without a backward glance. Children are in that strange place, where everything impacts them deeply, cuts linger for the rest of their lives. But they’re also resilient.

He turns to me when we’re alone. “Head upstairs.”

“I can get her the hot chocolate,” I say, licking my dry lips.

That earns me a dark look. “You’re a mess. Head upstairs. Clean yourself up.”

I look down and confirm that he’s right. I look fairly grotesque with my hands cut to ribbons. That doesn’t even count the way my ankle feels taut and swollen beneath my jeans. “I’m sorry about losing track of her.”

“We’ll talk when you aren’t covered in blood.”

I climb the stairs with the kitten in tow and set her down in her litterbox, which she uses right away. Ironically she’s probably been holding it sitting outside.

Don’t think about it. There’s a deluge forming against a dam. It’s been building for a long, long time. I’ve never really talked about my father’s death. I avoided the topic, and if it came up, I’d say, “It was a long time ago.” Which is bullshit, really. It’s like I told Paige up in that tree. I just pretended like I was okay, but I wasn’t okay. Not then, and not now. I never got over his death. And I never will. Society gives us timetables. Oh, you can be sad for this much time. And you can be angry for a little bit here. But then you move on.

What does moving on look like? What does it even mean?

I lost my father, my guardian, my entire family that day. There is no next for me.

My wet clothes fall into a soggy heap on the white tile. I step beneath the burning spray of the shower. It stings from where my skin has gone chilled and numb. Sometimes it’s worse to feel anything at all. I lean back and slide down the wall to the floor. There’s no tomorrow. College. A job. It still doesn’t matter. Paige was right about that.

I cover my face with my bloody hands and cry.

CHAPTER SEVEN

A fire crackles in the hearth. It sounds real. It looks real. It probably feels hot to the touch, but I’d bet it’s one of those gas fireplaces. Or maybe electric. With those logs made out of ceramic and sculpted to look like wood. No actual branches burn here.

I take a painful step into the room. Another.

Firelight traces the stark planes of his face, making him look more severe. He does not turn when I come into the room. Nor when I sit in the armchair opposite him. If he’s going to fire me, I might as well be seated in this plush leather cushion while he does it.

“Hi,” I say.

He casts a sardonic look my way. “How are your hands?”

“Fine,” I lie, even though they’re burning. I don’t bother showing them, because they’d only disprove the point. They don’t even compare to how much my ankle hurts. Thankfully he didn’t watch me walk in with a limp. “I took a couple Advil, so I feel better.”

He doesn’t seem like he believes me. He also doesn’t seem like he cares that much. His sherry-colored eyes manage to look cold. “So, your parents died when you were a child as well?”

I flinch. Maybe I should have expected this line of questioning. I knew he heard me talking to Paige, but I assumed he’d fire me and be done with it. “Yes.”

After taking a shower I joined them downstairs to find that Mr. Rochester had already prepared an early dinner for his niece. Mac and cheese from a blue Kraft box, along with a Pop-Tart for dessert. He informed me that he’d help her get ready for bed. I was to wait and meet him in his study at nine p.m. Now she’s asleep. Now, for all intents and purposes, we’re alone.

Hanging from that branch with the bark digging into my palms felt better than this.

“You were older than Paige is now.”

“Older when my father died. Younger when my mother died.”

“A sad story.” I’ve received plenty of sympathy over the years. Fake sympathy, mostly. The kind Paige got from the school principal. I’m sorry, but you need to get over it. This is different. Mr. Rochester does not offer sympathy. He remarks, as if on the weather.

“Are you going to fire me?”

He considers me, unmoved by my question. It’s not that he’s saying yes or saying no. He does not feel compelled to answer me. “And after that. You had no family to take you in?”

“My mother’s parents are still alive. They refused.”

“Why?”

“For the same reason they disowned her when she married my dad, probably.”

“Which was?”

“His race. His lack of money. Whatever the reason, they didn’t explain it to me.” My father was from Mexico. An undocumented immigrant, technically, though he was naturalized when he was young. My own citizenship has never been in question since I was born here, but I’ve faced plenty of dirty looks, discrimination, and muttered comments to go back where I came from over the years.