I hold out the blanket, which is heavy with rainwater. I can be stubborn, too. “Take it.”

“You aren’t paid to take care of me. You’re paid to take care of Paige.”

But you’re hurting, I want to say. You’re hurting and grieving just as badly as she is. Maybe more. His pain isn’t as simple as missing his brother and his sister-in-law. There’s something darker happening here. I feel its energy pulsing through the house. As if it’s haunted, not with ghosts but with memories. “Come inside.”

His gaze holds mine for an unbroken moment. In that time I see his pain. He means what he says. He feels responsible for someone’s death. I’m not afraid of him, though.

Maybe that will be the death of me.

CHAPTER SIX

The next day after lunch I pull out her workbook. Pencils. Erasers. And a bright, fake smile that she can see right through. “We really need to do some schoolwork, Paige.”

She continues sorting through the real estate cards. St. James Place. Tennessee Avenue. New York Place. Then, Connecticut Avenue, Vermont Avenue, Oriental Avenue. She likes grouping them. At first I thought it was a child’s natural instinct to connect them by color. It didn’t take me long after playing with her to realize it has more to do with strategy. When you have a monopoly on a single color, it becomes harder for the opponent (in other words, me) to avoid them. She can also build houses and hotels that way, making it more likely she’ll bankrupt me in a single roll of the dice. The kitten has curled up to nap in the black plastic container that used to hold the small silver game markers.

“Paige? I know you don’t like it, but we have to do it.”

“Why do I even need school?”

That’s a tricky question. Because the law requires children to go to school. Because it’s my job to make sure she does the work. Neither of those answers are likely to satisfy a defiant six year old. “So you can learn about the world around us.”

That doesn’t even earn me a glance. Baltic Avenue. Mediterranean Avenue. She can barely restrain her glee when she lands on one of those. Bloodthirsty little thing.

“I’m hungry,” she says.

“We just ate.”

“I’m still hungry.”

There wasn’t a large amount of the lobster stew today. The bowl is empty, and Mrs. Fairfax already left for the day. “Do you want a Pop-Tart?”

“No,” she says, drawing out the word. “Mac and cheese.”

“Okay.” I’m no chef, but I can make this happen with a blue box. I head into the kitchen and pull out the butter, the milk. I’m heating up water in the pan when I peek back into the dining room. Empty. The real estate cards fan out on the table.