“My life?” Does she mean I’m going to ruin it by falling for some guy who’s inappropriate for me? Or does she mean actual risk, which is how it sounded? “I think you’re exaggerating.”

“You heard about what happened to that other Mrs. Rochester, didn’t you?”

“She died in a boating accident.”

“Some that says that. Others that say she was murdered. Her husband, you know. Beau’s brother. They were always fools, both of them. Violent. Mean.”

I shiver in the warm kitchen. “The newspaper said it was an accident.”

She keeps going as if I never spoke. “And some says her spirit never really left. Her ghost roams the cliffs looking for Beau to save her from her husband.”

Unease clenches my stomach. “That’s not real.”

Cool brown eyes meet mine over a steaming pot. “I wouldn’t go into the attic again, Ms. Mendoza. You go looking for ghosts, you just might find them.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Jane Mendoza

I’m not sure I’ve ever really attended anything called a dinner party. My father went to work and came home. On a good night we’d watch a baking show together. There wasn’t a large group of family and friends, which is why I went into the state’s custody when he had a heart attack.

My foster homes could barely put food on the table, much less invite people over.

Apparently a dinner party involves a lot more than good food. A party rental company arrives in the afternoon, dropping off fine china, wineglasses, cutlery, a table runner, and iridescent sashes to go across the wooden dining room chairs.

A truck from a local vineyard arrives with bottles of wine and hard cider. A separate delivery from a liquor store arrives with cases full of every other kind of alcohol.

Then a package arrives through UPS next-day air that requires a signature. Turns out there’s a cake from a famous bakery in New York City inside. I didn’t even know you could get these kinds of things delivered.

Paige frets about the dinner party, about what to wear, about meeting all of Uncle Beau’s friends. “What if they don’t like me?” she asks me.

“They will love you. You’re kind and adorable and smart. Of course they’ll love you.”

She frowns. “Of course you say that. You’re paid to like me.”

I sit up straighter in the armchair. We’re sitting in one of the living areas, a Monopoly board open between us, way more pieces of property and stacks of cash on her side than mine. “Hey. I like you for yourself. Not because I’m paid to do it.”

“But I gave you so much trouble with the schoolwork.”