Private Property (Rochester Trilogy 1)

“Uncle Beau is going to save her,” I say, swallowing hard. It feels like swallowing knives. I don’t know whether he will be able to or not, but there will be more than enough time for crying later if it turns out he can’t. “Come on, we have to move back.”

I pull her along, more rough than I would be at another time, made clumsy with urgency. Once we reach the tree line, I can breathe again. We look a mess. We’re both covered in soot and mud. It streaks across our pale nightgowns. I’m shaking. Maybe because I’m afraid, but part of me also knows it’s cold out. It has to be under forty degrees, and we’re wearing light cotton that ends at our knees. I wish I’d thought to bring a jacket for Paige. She’s going to freeze to death before we get to safety. Or my phone to call for help.

Or the kitten, while we’re sending up useless prayers.

“Wait here,” I say, dashing to the old shed. It’s a little close to the house for safety, but I move quickly. There’s a tarp inside. When I get back to her, I wrap it around her body like a blanket. Not exactly comfortable, but it should keep more body heat inside and protect her from the wind.

A faint siren reaches me on the wind, and I look down across the water to the beachfront village. Red and white lights bounce off trees. I hope that’s coming for us. They can definitely see the flames from here. At least there’s help on the way, but it’s got to be fifteen minutes out to make it over the bridge and up the mountain.

There’s a crash from inside the house, and I flinch. Beau is inside there.

Paige stands there with the army green tarp wrapped around her. She looks extra pale beneath the heavy plastic and the streaks of mud, like some kind of fairy who fell down to earth. I’ve seen her with a hundred different expressions—playful and angry and curious. She stares at the house with a haunted resignation. This was how she looked when she found out her parents died. I wasn’t there, but I already know. This is soul-deep grief.

No. I won’t let her grow up without family. I won’t let Beau die, not on my watch. I’m the expendable one here. Not him.

I kneel down in front of her. “Wait here, understand? Right by this tree. Don’t go anywhere.” I want to tell her not to go anywhere except with me or with Uncle Beau, but the truth is she may not see either of us again. Don’t think like that. “Wait for the people in uniforms. They’re going to come in a big fire truck with lights and sirens.”

She gives me a solemn nod.

That’s all I need to turn around and rush into the house. Smoke hits me like a wall. It makes me stagger back. It’s so thick that the air is heavy and solid as I try to push through.

I’m disoriented. Dizzy. I barely know which way leads deeper into the house and which takes me outside again. It’s like a maze without walls. I could become lost in here, never finding Beau, never finding anything. There’s a shout, and I turn to the left.

The sitting room. It’s where we had drinks before the dinner party. Where Beau licked me after. Now it’s a disaster, the lush leather furniture covered in debris.

Beau’s trapped under a massive beam that looks twelve inches wide and twelve inches deep. It spans almost the entire room. It looks almost strong enough to hold up the second floor. At least it did before it fell down. He’s shouting something to me, but I can’t hear.

I make my way over, tripping a few times, burning myself on hot metal.

Everything is a blur, made hazy from tears in my eyes.

He shoves something small and warm in my hands. I’m taken back in time to when I first met him outside. The lights from his vehicle blinded me. The rain and mud made the world topsy turvy. He handed me a kitten back then and he hands me one now.

I hold her under one arm and pull with the other. It’s useless. If he couldn’t lift the beam himself, there’s no way I can do it—and especially not one-handed.

Indecision. Uncertainty. It paralyzes me. “Go,” he shouts. I can’t hear him over the blaze, or maybe that’s only my fear, but I can read his lips.

I’ve had an uneasy relationship with God since I can remember. He took my mother first. Then my father. How could someone all knowing, all seeing, allow what happened in my bedroom in my first foster home? It would be so much easier if I didn’t believe in him. Then I would not have to blame him. Now I pray to a God that forsook me long ago to hold on. To let Beau live another ten seconds, twenty seconds. The thirty seconds it takes me to run the kitten outside and push her into Paige’s waiting arms, her hoarse cry of relief echoing across the cliff.