Private Property (Rochester Trilogy 1)

“Please,” she mumbles.

I tighten my grip in her hair and guide her, faster and faster, harder and harder, until her eyes squeeze shut and tears leak down her cheeks and a sharp cry escapes her as she comes.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Jane Mendoza

There’s a woman who looks like Paige all grown up.

She’s wearing a soft blue dress, long sleeves and long skirt that flares at the bottom into a white fabric with tiny red flowers. Her hair is down, curls moving in the breeze. The cliff rises to meet her. The sun beams down on her. The entire Maine coast seems to embrace this woman, but I’m watching from behind cold panes of glass. There’s no light in the house. Only darkness.

I open my eyes and stare at the silent room.

Something compels me out of bed. A sound? Did Paige have another nightmare? It might have woken me up, though I don’t remember hearing anything.

The woman. The woman in my dream.

That must have been what Paige’s mother looked like.

I’m drawn to the window, as if searching for the long-ago image of her standing on the cliff. The moon hangs in the sky. I expect the cliff to be empty at this time of night, but there’s a shadow of movement. A woman in a dress walks through the trees. Not a woman, a child.

It’s Paige.

She’s wearing her nightgown, the one I put her to bed with four hours ago. It’s actually a pale blue color with white stripes and little red flowers on it.

The fourth room down. That’s Mr. Rochester’s room. I knock and then without waiting open the door. He sits up in bed, the hard planes of his chest and shoulders glinting in the moonlight, his dark hair tousled.

“What?” he barks.

“It’s Paige.” I’m breathless. “I saw her walking outside.”

Before he gets out of bed, I’m down the steps in a flurry of cold. I swing a jacket on and slide into my sneakers as I step outside. A freezing wind slams into me, almost propelling me back in the house. I force my way past it and break into a run.

The trees form an arrow in a cluster, pointing toward the house. That’s where I saw her enter the forest. She’s gone now. I look around wildly for a flash of that pale blue nightgown or a streak of dirty blonde hair. Nothing.

“Paige!” Hands grab me from behind, and I shriek.

“It’s me.” A low voice. Mr. Rochester. “Which way did she go?”

“I don’t know.” There’s a puff of air where my warm breath turns cold. “I saw her walking this way through the trees. But she’s not here anymore. Where could she go?”

He looks out over the ocean. Over the cliff. It seems impossible that she could have jumped, but it’s so slippery and treacherous at night. You can’t see where you put your feet. There’s fog in the air tonight, making the stones extra slippery. What if she fell?

We have the same fear. He and I, we move toward the cliff at the same time. We could look over the edge, but we would not see a kitten with nine lives who managed to land on her feet. She would be hurt and crying—or worse.

I reach the very edge, where the rock already begins to slope. It’s been worn away, this corner—by wind and rain. By sleet. It’s already pointing down.

You have to get this far out to see over. I hold my breath and peek. Nothing. Only darkness. Relief washes through me. It takes me a full thirty seconds to sweep my gaze over the full length of it, part of it steep and vertical, part of it a long slope.

No sign of her.

A huge gust of wind hits me from behind, and I let out a little moan at the cold and shock. It blows into my nightgown, freezing wetness against my skin. I hold myself rigid against the force, but it makes me take a step forward.

That’s when my foot hits something wet. A patch on the rock—mud, probably. My body moves in an uncontrolled slide, a sharp scream entering the air.

It’s me. I’m the one screaming as I head directly for the edge.

Pain in my shoulder. A large hand clamps down on me and pulls me back. I grasp onto it, onto him, and hold on tight. We both slide down. He grabs my wrist in a punishing grip. There’s a hard yank that feels like it pops my arm from the socket—and then I’m sprawled onto the hard, wet rock. There’s an uneasy absence of sound above the roar of the ocean. Nothing. No one. I’m alone up here. I scramble over to the edge and down.

On part of the slope about ten feet down, Mr. Rochester is sprawled. He used his momentum, surging forward to push me back onto solid ground.