She ends the call and I immediately open the Uber app.
There’s nothing there.
My history, payment information, and preferences are all gone.
What in the fuck…
I try to remain calm and tell myself that there’s a reason behind all this, but nothing logical comes to mind. And I know there’s far more smoke that leads to the fire.
Sighing, I return to Seattle’s smallest library—grateful that it’s right next door to a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop that’s served me five back-to-back espressos since leaving Mister R’s estate.
Its only flaw is that the staff is a little too helpful. A little too friendly.
Except for when I asked them to bring me everything they had on The Rochester Estate.
They played dumb and helpless for half an hour, and it wasn’t until an unpaid intern asked me what I needed that I finally received some direction.
Taking a seat in front of one of the archive computers, I stare at the screen.
Every brain cell is begging me to stop while I’m ahead, to use Mister R as nothing more than a muse for a midnight orgasm—a fleeting memory that will disappear over the years—and give up on any other thoughts of him crossing into my life.
I can’t…
I take another sip of my coffee and resume my record search of “Edward Rochester.”
I’m on page two hundred of a hundred thousand, and I’m still knee-deep in results that reflect the fictional character in Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre. There are countless criticisms of the movie adaptations, never-ending lists about new novel retellings, and frenzied fandom recollections.
Even on the other computer screen, with “Edward Rochester—Seattle” as the search term, the results are clogged with sweet homage to the book character.
I shuffle my way through another eighty pages before catching something that finally pertains to him.
It’s a local headline from years ago.
Edward Rochester donates $10M to Local Charity
—Seattle Pier Reports
There’s no article attached.
Only a grainy picture of him standing next to another suit. The other guy is smiling; Mister R is expressionless.
And somehow, even through the photographer’s faded filter, he still looks sexy as ever.
I grab another espresso before switching strategies, giving up on using his first name altogether.
Typing in “Ryder Rochester” and “Ryder Rochester Seattle,” I find more dismal results.
Most are tied to a moving truck company in New York.
“We’ll carry you and your new life all the way to Seattle!”
Ugh.
Frustrated, I type in his current address and the listing says, “currently off the market,” and it reveals nothing new. Even the images via satellite show nothing except the plot of land from several years ago.
It’s not until an hour later that I stumble upon my next crumb: another headline from the same paper.
Rochester Estate Ruined
—Seattle Pier Reports
Ruined by what?
I click on the story, but it’s hidden behind an expired paywall.
“Miss?” A librarian pokes her head around the corner, making me look up. “Miss?”
“Yes?”
“We’re closing in a few minutes,” she says. “Can you return all the microfilm cards and all those local newspapers that you asked our intern for?” She points to the yellowed stack of papers that I haven’t had the chance to touch.
“Absolutely,” I say. “Thank you.”
I wait for her to leave and tuck the microfilm cards into my purse. Then I stuff all the newspapers into my duffle bag and race toward the exit.
I’ll return them at the end of the week when I’m finished scouring every word.
Carrying the newspapers into the coffee shop, I pay the barista fifty dollars to look away while I make use of their backroom printer.
I take my time copying every article that has ever mentioned the word “Rochester,” and force myself not to read as I go.
The words “blaze,” “unthinkable,” and “fatalities” tempt me when they fly out of the machine, but I keep my focus and scan another.
I don’t have time to stop.
When I’m almost finished, my phone sounds with a call.
Mister R.
I stare at the screen while it buzzes against the counter. Each vibration pushes every nerve in my body toward the edge that teeters between fear and longing.
It finally stops buzzing, and I let out a breath.
He calls again.
I pick it up and tuck it into my purse so I won’t be tempted to answer him.
Several minutes pass, and as I’m copying the last newspaper, he calls me once more.
I swipe accept and hold it up to my ear. “Look, I’m not sure what the hell you want from me after what happened at your estate today, but I don’t think—”
“Am I catching you at a bad time, Miss Jane?”
Huh?
This voice doesn’t belong to Mister R.
It’s the property of Mr. Walsh, my lawyer.
“Not at all,” I say, glancing at the screen. “What’s going on?”
“I’m the one who should ask you that question,” he says. “I’m assuming that you’re running late.”
“To what?”
“Our meeting at Whimstery Café.” He pauses. “It was supposed to start twenty minutes ago. Did you forget?”