Hiding Places
HIDING PLACES
Skye Warren
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Books by Skye Warren
About the Author
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
Jane Mendoza
The smells of roasted coffee and warm sugar waft over me as I step inside.
A little bell rings above the door. Dark wood furniture mixes in haphazardly with lumpy cushion chairs. Original paintings from a local artist hang on the walls with handwritten business cards beside them, with an email address and price. It’s quiet in the mid-afternoon.
A woman sits with her young child, the remnants of a muffin split between them on the table. Each of them has a book. There’s a pang of sadness inside me.
That could have been me and Paige.
A man works on his laptop. There’s a thick backpack in the seat opposite him that looks like it must weigh 100 pounds. He brings forth a different kind of envy.
I want that sense of purpose.
The barista looks up from her phone with a friendly smile. She has the kind of wispy red hair and pale, freckled skin that I’ve always admired. A small, scalloped nose ring looks effortlessly cool. “Good morning. What can I get ya?”
I study the large chalkboard menu hanging above us as if this is a more important choice than a drink. “A caramel macchiato,” I say. “Please.”
“Hot or iced?”
I press my lips together. I’m not used to ordering five-dollar lattes. I’m not used to wearing two-hundred-dollar faux fur boots. I’m not used to having a brand-new wardrobe full of perfectly fitting new clothes in every modern style.
There’s a cute retro headband in my hair. When I saw the price tag, I nearly had a heart attack. Beau Rochester doesn’t ask for permission. These clothes simply appear in my closet. No receipt, no bags, no way to send them back.
The only thing I can do is wear them.
“Iced,” I finally say.
She takes my money and then gestures toward a counter where I can wait. Her hands work efficiently at the silver levers on a complicated machine. Big rumbly sounds erupt along with a frothy drink. Someone else comes in and before they’ve even made it to the counter, the barista grins at them. “The usual?” she asks.
“God, yes,” the woman says, juggling a large tote and a toddler. “How’s Benny?”
“Same old,” the barista says.
“Well, tell him if he ever wants a job he is always welcome at the bakery. For that matter, you should come work for me too, Simone.”
Simone, that’s her name.
This isn’t the kind of establishment where she has a name tag on her green apron. This is the kind of place where everyone already knows her name, where she knows everyone’s order without them having to read a chalkboard menu.
In some ways, I fit into this new world. I have money now, and clothes that fit, but I still don’t belong. When my drink is ready, I wave my thanks and find a small table in the corner.
My tote bag contains college applications. Not one, not two.
There are over fifty in this massive stack.
I can’t decide where I want to go so I figured I’d let the colleges decide for me. Fifty applications, loads of essays. It’s a lot. Too much, even. But it’s a distraction that I need. A project to keep my heart from breaking now that I don’t get to see Paige every single minute.
The first one is a small private college in upstate Maine.
Name one person who influenced you.
My mind immediately flies to Beau, the man who rescued me, the man I rescued in return.
I also think of Noah, my friend from the foster home. He helped me more than I can repay.
In the end, it’s Paige that I write about. An anonymous little girl who started off as a nanny job but ended up stealing my heart. I lose myself in the paperwork and drain my drink down to the ice cubes. I don’t realize how much time has passed.
The bell over the door tinkles. A shadow blocks the light.
“What can I get ya?” the barista asks, the same way she asked me. This person is also a stranger. Except when I look up, he’s familiar.
Beau Rochester orders a large coffee, black.
He sits down across from me before it’s ready. “Any good ones?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, but it’s not exactly an agreement.
He doesn’t think I should apply to 50 schools. He wants me to apply to my dream school. That’s it. I always thought that if I went to college anywhere, it would be in Texas. The University of Texas at Austin has an amazing social work division. Plus, it made the most sense location wise. The in-state tuition would have been the most affordable. So I built my visions of college around wearing burnt orange.
Dreams change. Beau taught me that. Paige taught me that too.
I can’t imagine being so far away from her. More than that, I can’t imagine taking Beau so far away from her. He doesn’t want me to compromise, but it isn’t a compromise to stay in Maine.
The barista emerges from the counter and hands Beau his coffee. He accepts it with a murmured, “Thanks.”
The barista, Simone, continues to stand there. “You’re Rhys Rochester’s brother?” It’s not exactly a friendly question, but there’s no avarice in her voice.
It strikes me that I’m not the only outsider here.
Beau was born on these shores, but he didn’t stick around. He made his fortune on the West Coast. It was his brother who stayed here, his brother who would have been known by the barista, his brother who died an ignoble death after working with a dirty cop.
We are more than outsiders in this small Maine town. We’re infamous.
Headlines splashed when a former detective was charged with Rhys Rochester’s murder.
For his part, Beau has been stoic.
He doesn’t want to talk about the fact that his brother abused his wife or the fact that he helped steal drugs and property as a dirty cop. He doesn’t want to talk about it, but it eats at him.
“That’s me,” Beau says, his expression grim.
I tense, waiting for the barista to say something sharp or condemning. Instead, she gives a friendly smile. “Tell Paige I said hi. And that I have a cookie with sprinkles waiting for her whenever she drops by again.”
Beau nods.
The barista disappears, and then I’m left with a man I love and a paper stack of possibility.
He picks up one of the papers and reads aloud. “Reflect on a time when you faced an unexpected challenge. How did you deal with it and what did you learn from the experience?” He reads my answer quietly and then sets the paper down. “Hell.”
My cheeks flush, “I didn’t think you were go
ing to read that.”
“You couldn’t have written about the time you showed up for your job rain-logged and exhausted, and I pushed a kitten at you? ‘Keep it alive,’ I said. ‘Consider this your interview.’”
I worry my nail into the edge of the desk where the glue has started to separate. “It was intense,” I say, “but not really unexpected. I was getting paid a lot for this nanny job. It was always going to be hard.”
“Jane.”
I sigh and close my eyes. The money is incredible. He didn’t just pay me my one-year salary. He insists on showering me with money, with gifts.
He even wanted to hire this super expensive college coach because apparently that’s a thing rich people can do. The person would manage my applications, including all the deadlines and the recommendations. They would also do deep edits of all of my essays.
I refused. The money is hard enough to take without additional help.
“Money doesn’t mean anything,” Beau says.
“That’s what people with money say.”
The money was an unexpected challenge.
That’s what I wrote in this short essay question. Yes, it’s also a boon, a gift, a freaking miracle. It means I can go to college anywhere that I want. It means I’ll be able to focus on my studies instead of having to work three jobs to pay the rent.
It’s an incredible blessing in my life, but it also forces me to face my deepest fears that I can’t do this on my own. I want to be with Beau because I love him and because he loves me, not because I need him to achieve my goals.
I wrinkle my nose at him. “I thought you had a meeting this morning.”
“It was cut short,” he says, a gleam in those storm gray eyes, “when I got a call from the builder. It’s ready.”
Excitement races down my spine, along with a touch of uncertainty. The house means setting down roots. Even if you go to college somewhere else, Beau said, we’ll always have the house near Paige. I want that, but I’m also quietly terrified.
Back when I worked for Beau at Coach House, taking care of Paige, it was kind of like playing house. We were a pretend family, but now, even though we’ve lost Paige, we’re no longer playing house. This is real.
And Beau? He’s my family.
CHAPTER TWO
Beau Rochester
“Can I open my eyes?” Jane asks. She’s got one hand blocking her vision and a big grin on her face. “You know, I’ve seen the plans for the house. I’ve been here lots of times.”
“It’s different.” I want to remember her in this moment. Happy. Excited. Our new house has been under construction for months. Building a house seems like it should be straightforward. Approve the plans. Hire contractors. Break ground. Things come up, though. Problems to be solved. Decisions you didn’t think you’d have to make. Delays. Now we’re finally standing in front of the completed home, next to my car in the driveway. “Yes. Go ahead.”
Jane takes her hand away and looks up at the house. A little gasp comes from her lips. “It’s perfect,” she says. “Look, Beau. It’s our house.”
I put an arm around her waist and pull her into my side. “Yes, it is.”
I’m trying not to let on that this house is a goddamn miracle. My life with Jane is a miracle. She had no reason to stand by me after the way I treated her when we first met. I was a sullen asshole who was so hurt he couldn’t see straight. I’m still an asshole. No one would argue that she turned me into a teddy bear. But it’s impossible to be sullen when she’s smiling like that.
“It’s just how we wanted.”
Actually, it’s not just how we wanted.
There was a shortage of the paint color for the exterior, so it’s a different shade of white. Half the shutters on the windows came in the wrong pattern so we switched them out midway through construction. Who the hell cares? If it’s right in Jane’s eyes, it’s right.
Looks pretty good to me, too. We share a property line with the boundary of Coach House’s grounds. The rebuilt Coach House is in sight of ours. Most importantly, it’s within running distance for Paige. She can leave the door of Coach House and come over without going out of view for a second. Paige and Emily have a space that’s all theirs. Refreshed and new, without any hauntings or bad memories. Coach House has the same massive, cliffside shape as it always did. It was registered as a historical property, so when it was rebuilt, it had to be to the old specifications. Updated electric, of course. Modern safety features. Traditional design.
Jane shades her eyes with her hand and looks over our house. In shape, it’s more modern to Coach House. That kind of design made the most sense. Ours isn’t as large, and it’s much lighter, both in paint colors and actual light. Windows everywhere. Stunning views. Enough bedrooms to have Paige stay over. Paige and guests, even.
“Let me show you the inside.” I’m nervous for her to see it. Not all of it will be a surprise to her, but some things will. I want her to love this place. If she doesn’t, I’ll tear the whole thing down and start again.
“Okay,” she agrees.
Jane has seen the plans for the interior, but not the actual progress as we’ve worked. She follows me like an excited puppy. A wide, sunny foyer welcomes us into the house. Stairs lead up to the second floor.
“Straight back is the kitchen.” I can see the countertops from here. “Living room’s on our left.”
“Show me the bedrooms,” Jane says. “Then we’ll come back downstairs.” We go up together, Jane taking the stairs two at a time. “It smells so nice in here,” she says with a sigh.
“It smells new. It smells like paint.”
She laughs. “I like it.” I like it, too. At Coach House, I was always looking over my shoulder. My brother’s presence seemed like it was part of the walls there. Part of the furniture. Here, everything is for us. Jane turns a corner into a bedroom. “Paige?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“Oh my God,” she breathes. “She’s going to love it.”
We did her room in a Monopoly theme. One of the walls is painted to look like a giant Monopoly game board. She’s got a full-size bed with Monopoly throw pillows and an oversized stuffed thimble piece. Jane runs her palm over the dresser, then goes out to see the other guest rooms. One blue, one green. And then, at the back of the house, the master.
Jane’s eyes get huge. “This is way bigger than it looked on the plans.”
Sunlight pours in from windows that overlook the ocean. On one end of the room is a sitting area. A couch with a blanket thrown over the back and two chairs. A bookshelf. A table. At the other end is our new bed. Jane touches the end of the comforter lightly with her fingertips.
“This is like a fancy hotel.”
“It won’t feel like a hotel once we’re here for a few nights.”
Jane gets on tiptoe to kiss me. “I just meant that it’s beautiful,” she murmurs against my mouth. “Anywhere you are feels like home.”
She’s astonished at the size of the bathroom and our walk-in closets. Delighted at the hand-carved wooden floors and thick carpets. At the small architectural details throughout. Her joy is the first thing to enter the rooms since they’ve been completed.
I can’t think of anything better.
Jane pauses one more time at the door to the master bedroom, and I take her in my arms. “We could spend the rest of the day in bed.”
She turns her body to kiss me back. “We haven’t seen the rest of the downstairs yet.”
I only agree because there is something I want to show her. Something that wasn’t included in the plans. The space was there, but not the final details. I chose those myself.
Jane twines her fingers through mine and pulls me down the stairs with her. We turn toward the kitchen and go down the hall. She peeks into my office, but I put my hands on her shoulders and guide her past.
The kitchen is large and light soaked. It would draw most women, but Jane sees the room I’m most proud of the second we step inside.
&
nbsp; “Beau,” she gasps. “What is that?”
“A sunroom.”
It’s off the kitchen. Technically, off the living room, too.
It’s a vaulted room, impossibly high on one side, sloping down into a series of wide, slanted windows that look up through the trees. It continues down with a wall of windows, broken only by French doors. It feels like we’re standing on a calm version of the cliff—there’s a clear view of the sea. The designer I hired from New York has added live plants in the corners. A few black-and-beige prints of a nautilus. A small white-globe light hanging from the ceiling will provide only enough light to read when it gets dark.
She’ll still be able to see the stars.
“This is my favorite spot,” she says, climbing into the king-sized futon, complete with matching throw pillows and a large oversized knit blanket. Already an end table contains a stack of books, and she runs her fingers down the spines.
I want her fingers on me. “Your favorite spot? Not the bedroom?”
“My second-favorite spot, then,” she says with an impish grin.
“There’s something else.”
“More than this?” Jane stands and walks to the kitchen. She opens her arms wide and twirls beneath the skylights. “I thought you were keeping things simple.”
“It is simple.”
I lead her back through the kitchen and stop at the first door on the right. Jane opens it and tiptoes in. “You wanted two offices?”
“It’s for you.” A real, honest-to-God office. Floor-to-ceiling shelves. A sturdy desk by a window that looks out on the side yard. An armchair for comfort. “You need a place other than the coffee shop or the sofa to do your work.”
“I barely have any work yet.” Her dark eyes are bright with happiness even as she tries to convince me that she doesn’t need this. “Applications and essays.”
“It’s important work.” I take her face in my hands and kiss her. Jane’s sweet and warm. I could kiss her every second for the rest of my life and it wouldn’t be enough. “It’s how you’ll take the next step. And once you’ve chosen that, you’ll have this place to come back to. It’s all yours.”