The night shifts, and I see someone walking. Tall. Broad shoulders. He could be any man, strong and large, but something about his gait tells me that it’s Mr. Rochester. His looks straight ahead even as he walks over craggy, uneven rock, hands shoved into pockets. A white shirt has become dark and slick against his skin. The rain must be freezing. I’m cold, and I’m inside the house.

What is he doing out there?

He appears to be walking without a destination.

Why is he so distant with Paige? Some days I can tell he’s trying his best to figure out Pop-Tarts and Monopoly when he never planned to be her parent. Other days I have less sympathy for him. It’s not her fault her parents died.

There are moments I get the sense that he’s hiding something. The feeling becomes stronger now, watching him. His shoulders are not hunched beneath the cold. It’s like he can’t sense the freezing rain. There’s something much worse driving him. A tortured soul beneath muscle and bone.

Is he a monster who thinks of his niece with a balance sheet?

Or is he a broken man fighting a battle I don’t understand?

My heart squeezes. I pick up the blanket that he gave me. I’m loathe to give it back. It smells of him. Ridiculous, I know. It’s been days. But he needs it more.

I run downstairs in my bare feet and fling open the door.

Rain pelts my skin, but I don’t feel it. Maybe that’s the way he is, driven by something deeper. The cold can’t touch how badly I need to soothe him right now.

He blinks at me through water-logged lashes. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m giving you this.” I hold out the blanket. It’s wet. I’m also wet. This is ridiculous, but so is walking around the cliffside when it’s slippery and freezing. “You’ll catch your death.”

His dark eyes look fierce in the moonlight. “It’s no more than I deserve.”

Unease runs through me. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’m not a good man, Jane. You shouldn’t worry about me getting cold. The best thing that could happen is that I catch my death out here on these cliffs. It would be fitting.”

It feels like he’s punishing himself. That’s why he’s making himself walk in the freezing rain. It’s why he won’t accept help. “Don’t talk like that.”

He gives a short laugh. “You shouldn’t care about me, Jane. You really shouldn’t. One woman has already died. I wouldn’t want that to happen to you.”

Cold races over my arms. It has nothing to do with the rain. “Who? Paige’s mom?”

“Go inside.”