Private Property (Rochester Trilogy 1)

She gives me a small, unexpected grin before scampering away through the forest.

Paige goes to sleep at eight, so I have a full hour after I put her down to wait. I only make it for thirty minutes before I head to his study. No matter how much he claims not to care about her education, he does care.

No matter how grumpy he pretends to be, he’ll be happy about this.

I knock on the door to his study at eight thirty-six p.m.

“Enter.”

I bound into the study, full of energy and hope for the future. And stop abruptly when I see his expression. His eyes are full of mystery and menace. His lips are pressed to a flat line. Even now, even looking angry, he looks handsome.

It’s a cruel world. Unethical, as he would say, to make someone so mean look so beautiful.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Sit down.”

I’m too full of energy to sit down. “Paige has made the most exciting progress. She’s doing her schoolwork. She’s doing it outside on rocks, with paint, but that doesn’t matter. It still counts. I already heard back from the teacher and—”

“I saw that. Excellent work. I must say, I didn’t expect that from you.”

The way he says from you makes me stiffen. As if there’s something wrong with me. “I thought you’d be pleased about this. You said she had to pass first grade. Now she will.”

“Sit down, please.”

The word please makes me frown. He still sounds angry, but at least I can sit down and find out why. “Did something happen?”

“I suppose you could say that. I got a report back from a private security firm. Turns out the background check that Bassett Agency did was not quite comprehensive.”

I frown. “I don’t have any… felonies or anything.”

“No.” A faint smile. “No misdemeanors. Not even a single detention at school.”

“Why do you sound like that’s a bad thing?”

“It’s not, of course. Every good uncle wishes that his niece is raised by such a paragon in society.”

I narrow my eyes and say nothing. This is not a good talk.

“Your packet from Bassett Agency didn’t include your medical records.” He shifts through some pages on his desk. They look long. Like physically long pieces of paper. Medical charts? He runs his hand over something that looks like an X-ray. “Lots of broken bones.”

My blood runs cold. “How did you get that? There’s a privacy law for health records.”

“Money talks, sweetheart.”

I swallow, thinking back to Noah’s words about doctors being slaves to the pharmaceutical companies. Did the hospitals sell me out for a few dollars?

Go back to your rich people, Noah said. That’s where you belong.

But I don’t belong here.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask, my voice hoarse.

“You’re spending more time with Paige than any other person. I’d like to know who you are. More than just some platitudes written in a recommendation letter.”

“I spend more time with her because you ignore her.”

“I know everything that happens in her life.”

Emboldened by my outrage, I roll my eyes. “You don’t spend time with her. You don’t talk to her. You don’t even eat dinner with her, which would be so easy.”

“So easy,” he says, as if testing the words. “I’ve never had any experience with children. Never wanted any experience with them. Being made a legal guardian of a child doesn’t magically turn you into a good parent.”

“You think I don’t know that? I came from the foster care system. It’s full of terrible, terrible legal guardians, people who never should have been put in charge of a child.”

“People like me,” he says, his voice challenging.

“Would you rather she go to a house that can’t afford heat, a place where the dogs get more to eat than the humans, a family that beats you for crying for your parents?”

“That’s what it was like for you?” His voice is hard.

“You care about Paige. I know you do.”

A soft smile. “I don’t care about anyone but myself.”

I lift my chin. “Then why aren’t you still in Los Angeles partying every night?”

“God,” he says. “You think it’s because I’m selfless? I didn’t leave that scene for Paige. I left a year before that even happened, because I was sick to death of all the silicone and the cocaine and the fucking nameless women.”

“They had names,” I say, my teeth clenched together. “Whether you knew them or not.”

“I know your name.” Four simple words that should not be provocative, but they are.

“You know more than that. Everything about me, really. Things you have no right to know.”

“Like Noah Palmer.”

“You already knew about him before. He wrote me a reference.”

“The cheese counter. Yes, I remember. You didn’t mention you were fucking him. I’m not sure you should be getting a recommendation letter from a boyfriend.”

“We aren’t dating. And we aren’t f—” I choke on the word. “We aren’t fucking.”