Cover

PRIVATE PROPERTY

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

Books by Skye Warren

About the Author

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

A gust of wind rocks the Toyota Prius.

I clench my teeth together. I’m pretty sure this compact eco-friendly car wasn’t designed to travel up a mountain. Rain falls in sheets, heavy on the thin roof. Through the window a half moon reveals an endless climb. I cling to the plastic handle, shivering against the worn fabric of the seat.

They didn’t have mountains this high in Houston. I thought the plane ride was scary, but this hour and a half drive is worse. Much worse. I knew Eben Cape was on the coast, but I pictured something sandy with gentle waves.

Not steep cliffs that drop into nothing.

“Do you come this way often?” I ask.

“Nope.”

Not a talkative one, my driver. He had a low rating on the app, but that’s what you get for an economy ride share. The pounding of rain unnerves me. As does the slope on the road. Water will make it slippery. I’d almost ask him to turn around, except that seems more dangerous on this narrow road. The only way left is forward. And up.

My ears do that strange hollow feeling I got when the airplane took off. I can’t see much in the dark, can’t hear anything. It’s a surreal sensation, like floating through space.

I look down at my phone. Its light almost blinds me.

No signal.

If I lost signal, then maybe the driver did, too. “Do you still see the map?”

“Only one place this leads,” he says, almost shouting to be heard over the storm. “The Coach House. Nothing to do but keep going now.”

The Coach House. That sounds comforting. A lot better than the number and street address I punched into the app. I’m picturing something with sturdy bricks and a birdbath. I close my eyes and hold the image in my mind, clutching my phone so tight it hurts.

I know precious little about the family I’m going to work for. Only that a man recently got custody of his niece. I wonder if he’s a fisherman. Maybe he catches lobsters out in that wild ocean spray. He’d wear rubber boots and have a white beard.

The car jerks suddenly, pulling out of its endless turn, the whole frame rocking on the tires as we reach some pinnacle. I let out a squeak that’s swallowed by the gales of wind.