I’m going to have to find some cat food and probably google a million pages about caring for kittens, but I think she’s doing okay. I have to hope that if a bone were broken, I’d be able to tell. Maybe it’s true what they say about cats having nine lives.

She probably used up a couple of them falling off that massive cliff.

“Sorry,” I say without looking up. I’m sitting with one leg under me, the other curled up beneath my chin, watching the kitten. “About saying you should be helpful.”

I read the fine print in the contract. Enough to know that the penalty for breaking it early would be severe… for me. I only get paid the bulk of it after the year is over. And I don’t get that if I leave before then. Of course the strictness only works one way. He can fire me anytime. I just didn’t think he’d consider doing it on the first night.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I just wasn’t expecting the whole kitten interview thing.”

“You can keep the job. For now.”

I let out a huff of exhausted laughter. “Thanks.”

“Come on,” he says. “I’ll show you to your room. You can share with the kitten.”

Great. My suitcase has been dripping onto the marble floor this whole time. I grab the warm bundle of fur and the suitcase and follow him down the hallway. We pass a series of rooms with sofas and dining tables and pianos and then more sofas. The place is massive. It’s more like a hotel lobby where hundreds of people could pass through, instead of a house for two people.

Everything looks expensive and even comfortable, but it doesn’t feel like a home.

A full wall of windows exposes the storm in all its glory. Maybe some people like watching nature use the earth like a drum, but after being out in it I’m still shivering. There’s a trail of muddy water behind me that I’ll probably have to clean up tomorrow. Right now I’m just desperate for a chance to get into some dry clothes.

He turns a corner and we head down a long hallway with a series of closed doors. Like the windows outside, they’re dark and nondescript and innately full of secrets.

A small gesture. His voice is low in the dark hallway. “That’s her bedroom. Paige. The reason for your position. You’ll meet her tomorrow.”

The reason for your position. There’s no warmth in his voice, even though he’s talking about a six-year-old little girl. “You’re her uncle?”

“Correct,” he says, his voice matter of fact. And cold. Colder than outside.