by Skye Warren
Panic. The word shoots through my mind like a comet, bright and hot.
It feels like there’s a vise around my throat, but I force myself to breathe in air. It’s made of knives, the air. I drag them into my lungs. Tears burn my eyes.
I remember a coping technique one of the therapists taught us in group sessions.
Five things I can see. My hospital gown, white with light blue dots. Black scuff marks on a white rubber floor. Beige plastic trim around the base of the room, cracked at the edges. My nails, dark with soot beneath them. Scrapes on the palms of my hands.
Four things I can touch. My hospital gown, thin and abrasive. The blanket that covers me. Plastic railings that keep me in bed. Tape holding an IV to my hand, the edges curling off my skin.
Three things I can hear. A steady beep beep beep from the machines. The murmur of the nurses in their station outside my room. Far away, laughter from a daytime TV show.
Two things I can smell. Antiseptic. And brown sugar.
One thing I can taste—oatmeal.
There’s a tray of cooling hospital food on the tray beside me. The doctor left me with strict orders to eat something. I force myself to take a bite of the thick brown sugar oatmeal and swallow, though it barely registers as flavor. I don’t know whether that’s a commentary on the cafeteria or on my emotional state. Probably both.
A knock at the door.
It’s already half-open. A white man in a black suit and severe expression walks inside, not waiting for a response to his knock. “Ms. Mendoza?”
“That’s me.” My voice comes out scratchy. More than that, it hurts. It feels like someone’s sifting pieces of sandpaper against my vocal cords. I don’t want to talk to anyone, but I especially don’t want to talk to this person. A stranger. An intimidating one.
“Detective Joe Causey.” He doesn’t reach to shake my hand. Either he’s read the doctor’s report about how they’re scratched up or he just doesn’t do that. He pulls out a small notepad and pen. “I’m looking into the fire at the Rochester place.”
I glance at the notepad, where he’s already started scribbling something. I haven’t even said anything yet. What’s he writing down? “Wouldn’t that be the fire department?”
“The fire chief called me out at two o’clock in the morning to take a look at the scene.”
“Oh.” Maybe that’s why he looks so severe. He got no sleep. Technically I also got very little sleep, but I can’t imagine sleeping. I feel frantic and jumpy. After all, the fire started when I was asleep. Slumber doesn’t feel safe anymore. As if it’s sleep that led to the flames and the smoke. As if it’s sleep, instead of the fire, that’s the enemy.
“Just a few questions. Your name is Jane Mendoza. You work for the family. Is that correct?”
“Yes. I’m the nanny for Paige.”
“And last night. What time did you have dinner?”
“Six, maybe? Seven? It was my day off, so they made spaghetti without me.” Beau and Paige were dancing in the kitchen when I got home from town.
“So you didn’t cook.”
“No.”
“Did you go back to the kitchen after you ate? Make anything else?”
“Why would that—” Something catches at the back of my throat and I cough. It hurts. “I didn’t, but why would that—”
“Most accidental fires start in the kitchen. Sometimes, looking back, a person might remember leaving the stove on.”
“I didn’t leave the stove on.”
“And where were you when you first noticed the fire?”
“I noticed the smoke.” I noticed the heat, actually. In my dreams. “It woke me up. Smoke in my bedroom. I’m not sure what time it was.”
It was after we had sex.
“So you didn’t go back to the kitchen. You were around the house, going to bed—”
“Yes. We put Paige to bed, and I went to my room, and when I woke up—”
“Alone?”
I’m not trying to be difficult, it’s just that there’s a clamor in my head. A sense of urgency running through my veins. I don’t know this person. Detective? Yes. Sure. In my world, police were the people that pulled you away from your parents. They were the people who looked the other way when foster parents were abusive. “What does this have to do with the fire?”
“I’m trying to get the facts, ma’am.” He seems to set aside the original question. “How long have you been working for Beau Rochester?”
Ma’am. That’s the first time I’ve ever been called that. The word is meant to be respectful, but the way he says it feels combative. It’s mocking me because I’m not really in a position of respect. I’m nobody. “A few months. I think.” I rub my forehead. “I’m not sure. If I check my email, I would know. I don’t have my phone. It was… in the fire.”
“And how much time do you spend with the family?”
“Most of my time. Like I said, I’m Paige’s nanny, so I’m there all the time, except for my days off.” I have a vision of this gruff, serious man questioning Paige and my heart speeds up. “Did you talk to her? Is she okay?”
“I spoke with Beau—” He catches himself. “With Mr. Rochester already.”
That makes me blink. The way he said Beau was casual. Personal. As if he knows him. “Mr. Rochester grew up around here. He said that once.”
A pause. And then a short nod. “We went to school together.”
What was he like? It’s like I have a window to his childhood right now. “High school? Middle school? How long have you known him?”
He ignores this. “What made you accept the job?”
The words rise in my throat. Well, you see, Detective, the world requires us to work in order to buy things. Like food. I force down my defiance. “I’m saving up for college, but I don’t see how that’s related to the fire.”
“Would you describe your relationship with Beau Rochester as strictly professional?”
My pulse spikes. A thin neon line on a black screen jumps. “That’s none of your business.”
“This is a police investigation. I need you to answer my questions, even if they don’t feel comfortable to you. And we met in elementary school.”
I open my mouth. And close it. Something deep inside tells me not to trust this man. I don’t like the hard look in his eyes or the presumptive way he speaks. But I don’t know if that fear is coming from my past, from a lifetime of not trusting authority.
Or if it’s good, old-fashioned PTSD from the fire.
“I live in the same house,” I say cautiously. “We see each other every day. We have dinner together. There’s a natural closeness for a live-in nanny that I didn’t expect when I took the job. So I don’t know whether I’d call it strictly professional.”
A memory rises, the dark shadow of Mr. Rochester above me.
“Tell me to stop,” he mutters against my lips.
It’s already a kiss, those words. I close my eyes. A tear leaks down the side of my cheek. It’s not sadness. It’s more than that. It’s desire. It’s feeling anything at all after being numb for so long. I’m more afraid of this than a free fall down the cliff. “Don’t stop.”
“Fuck,” he says, wrapping his hand around my throat. Choking me, but without the pressure. It doesn’t hurt, but it makes me feel strange, as if I’m being possessed. “You’re too innocent for the things I want to do to you.”
“What do you want to do to me?”
“Everything.”
My cheeks burn. I’m sure they must be pink right now, but I force myself to keep meeting the detective’s pale blue eyes. “I see,” he murmurs, and I have the disturbing sense that he does see. “He’s driven. Always has been. I suppose you could say we have that in common, with one key difference. I always wanted to make something of myself right here.”
“And he went to California.”
“His own personal Gold Rush, you could say.”
There are undercurrents in his voice. Jealousy? Resentment
? I suppose it would be hard to see someone he considered a peer become a rich man. I’m not immune to envy. There were times I wanted a sandwich and fruit roll-ups instead of a hot lunch I paid for with a free lunch number. Times I wanted a birthday party or gymnastic lessons or all the other things girls in my class got to have. Jealous feelings don’t make me particularly noble, but they do make me human.
“Do you hate him?” I ask.
He gives me an impassive look. “Until very recently I didn’t think much about him at all. Though I was curious to find out why he had a nineteen-year-old nanny living under his roof.” He checks his notepad, though I get the sense he isn’t really reading anything. “And I understand you slept across the hall from him. That’s… close.”
“This has nothing to do with the fire.”
“The fire chief believes it might be arson.”
Shock runs through my system. “I still don’t see what this has to do with the fire.”
“Where were you when the fire started?”
“You think I set it?”
“I think there were three people in the house when it started. I intend to question all of them.”
“Why would I set a fire? What possible reason could I have to do that?”
“Now that’s an interesting question. It’s one I’m sure I’ll be thinking about. A fight between lovers, perhaps. Did you think Rochester would marry you?”
A laugh of disbelief escapes me. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Maybe you thought you’d get his money. You and Beau are both alike. A girl like you would fuck him for money and set his house on fire.”
My heart pounds at the sudden change in tone. This isn’t the coldly professional detective who walked in. This is someone else, someone with a personal stake in his questions. There’s a heavy feeling in my stomach. Shock. And dread. “I almost died in that fire.”
“But you didn’t.”
My head shakes, back and forth, back and forth. It’s scary to think that someone might have set that fire. Who could have done it? Paige was asleep in her room. And Mr. Rochester was in bed… with me. Technically we both have an alibi. We couldn’t have set the fire because we were beneath the same sheet, limbs tangled together, sated. I don’t say any of that to Detective Causey, though. He already seems suspicious of my relationship with Beau.
“Listen,” I say, my voice shaking. “I understand you have to ask questions and investigate, but I would gain nothing if Beau or Paige died in a fire. I don’t have any anger against either of them. They’ve been like a family to me.”
The detective nods as if he expected as much, as if he didn’t just make that ugly accusation. “That leaves the other people in the house, then. Paige doesn’t present as a sociopath, so that leaves Beau Rochester. Did you know that the most common motive of arson is to commit insurance fraud?”
A vise closes around my lungs. “Why would he do that?”
The detective gives me a cold smile. The hair on the back of my neck rises. Living in group homes, you get a sense for danger. You know which people never to turn your back on. He’s one of them. “Why not? Because he’s wealthy? There’s never enough money, Ms. Mendoza. And once you’ve acquired a taste for making it, it’s hard to stop.”
“Are you speaking from experience?” I ask, my voice hoarse.
I don’t know where the accusation comes from. Detectives don’t exactly make tons of money, do they? Except I had the feeling he was speaking from experience. His eyes narrow. “We’ll all do things we aren’t proud of for the right price, won’t we?”
My heart thumps in my chest. If he knew about my intimate relationship with Mr. Rochester, I’m sure he would accuse me of sleeping with him for money. I swallow around the lump in my throat. “Not everything we do is for money.”
A hard smile. “You’re young, Ms. Mendoza. Perhaps you still believe that.”
There’s a bustle outside. Shouting. Then Beau bursts into the room, his nostrils flaring, his dark eyes blazing. “What the hell are you doing in here?”
The room was tense before—a spill of gasoline. Beau Rochester is the match.
“Just doing my job,” Detective Causey says with deceptive calm. Deceptive because I can sense the challenge underneath his words. It’s a glint in his blue eyes.
Beau’s wearing a casual beige jacket over a white T-shirt and jeans. He brings with him the crisp smell of the Maine outdoors. Along with the faint scent of something burnt. That’s when I realize he must have just come from visiting the Coach House. He hides the limp; his fury overcoming whatever pain he feels from walking around.
I narrow my eyes at Causey. “You said you just spoke to Beau.”
“I told you I’d spoken with him already. I never said I spoke with him about the fire.”
“Listen, Causey,” Beau says, his voice pitched low, fury vibrating through every syllable. “You don’t speak to her. You don’t speak to Paige. You have a question for them? Ask me.”
That makes Causey smile. It’s not a nice smile. “Protecting your employee? That’s admirable. I wasn’t sure you had it in you. Figured you’d throw her to the wolves.”
“Go to hell,” Beau says, the words a growl.
“Then again, maybe you aren’t so much protecting her. Maybe you’re keeping the family secrets. Secrets she’s been learning while she lives under your roof.”
“Leave.” Beau stands between the hospital bed and the detective, as if he really is protecting me. Against what? An overzealous detective? A childhood rivalry? It feels worse than that. Deeper than that, though I can’t see the undercurrents. I can only feel them. “Don’t come back without a warrant. We have nothing to say to you.”
“Or what?” Causey asks, taking a step toward Beau. Toward me.
“Or I’ll have your fucking badge.”
A harsh laugh. “You may have been hot shit in California. With your money and your women. But you’re still the Rochester kid around here. I don’t have a goddamn IPO but I have all the connections I could need around here. You can’t touch me.”
I watch in stunned silence while Causey leaves the hospital room.
Beau turns to me, his dark eyes intense. “What did he say to you?” His hard gaze sweeps over my hospital-gown-covered body. “Did he hurt you? Did he touch you?”
Touch me? Maybe the detective’s line of questioning was rude. Even aggressive, but he didn’t touch me. “Of course not. Why was he so… angry?”
“I have no idea,” Beau says, his voice grim. It sounds like a lie.
My stomach turns. Why did Detective Causey lie about talking to Beau before? Did he think I’d be more likely to let something slip? Why is Beau lying to me now? I’m walking through a spiderweb, blind to the strands, trapped by their strength.
The scent of burnt wafts wood over me again, along with the memories. Smoke. Flames. Being trapped in the house, believing I would die. “How’s the house?” I manage to ask.
Beau runs a hand through his hair. He looks stressed. Distracted. Of course he is. His house just burned to the ground. And I know his leg must be killing him even if he manages to hide it. I can’t believe Causey even suggested Beau might be responsible. “Not great. It’s a crime scene until the investigation’s closed, so we can’t even begin repairs.”
“Where will we stay?” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could take them back. There may not be a we anymore. For all I know he’s going to send me back to Houston.
“That’s what I was coming here to tell you. Mateo found us a place. The hospital’s discharging you and Paige right now. We’re going.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Beau Rochester
I scan the parking lot, but there’s no sign of Joe Causey. He’s a detective now. I hadn’t even heard he’d joined the police force, but it makes sense.
Bullies like power.
And Joe Causey was always a bully.
Paige stands on a small patch of gr
ass, clutching a pink teddy bear from the hospital gift shop. The stuffed animal looks large against her slender body. She wears a plain white T-shirt with the logo of the hospital and a pair of generic, too-large sweatpants that bunch up at her feet. It makes me feel protective. And royally pissed. How dare Causey try to question her without me? Thank fuck for Mateo. He sat with her for the hour it took to meet the fire chief at the house. He managed to hold off the hospital staff from letting Causey inside.
How did Causey know I’d be gone? Coincidence? Not likely. I’ve been by Paige’s side non-stop, only taking breaks to go to the bathroom or check on Jane. One of the only times I step outside the hospital, that’s when Causey shows up.
He’s probably friends with a nurse or a doctor here.
A black Escalade pulls up to the curb. The black-tinted window rolls down. Mateo looks at me over the top of his sunglasses. “Someone ordered an Uber?”
“Thanks, man,” I say, my voice pitched low. “I owe you one. Or two. Or three.”
He gets out and circles the vehicle.
Paige sidles close to me. She doesn’t trust Mateo, even though she met him at the dinner party. She doesn’t trust anyone since the fire. Doctors, nurses, all of them suspect. Even the balloon artist who made the rounds in the pediatric ward was subject to her glare.
“Hey, Paige,” Mateo says with a small wave.
She hides her face against my jeans.
“We appreciate your help,” I say, more for her benefit.
He gives a small smile, letting us know he doesn’t take offense to her rebuff. “The inn is all ready for you. You have rooms right next door to each other. They overlook the water.”
She ignores him.
“Wait here with Mateo,” I tell Paige, gently detaching her. “I need to get Jane.”
There’s a whoosh of air behind me. Large sliding doors open. An orderly pushes a wheelchair out. Jane blinks against the sun. She’s also wearing hospital-issued clothing, since she showed up in fire-torn nightclothes. She looks small and far too skinny sitting there. Delicate. Breakable.
Worry fights with frustration inside me. “I told you to wait for me. I was going to come get you.”
