Page 37 of Married to the Devil

“Come on, let’s go brush your teeth and find something to eat.”

Hattie chats happily as we go into the hall, find the bathroom, and open a new toothbrush for her. There’s even children’s toothpaste, the cotton-candy-tasting stuff she likes. I have to marvel at the way Hattie doesn’t bat an eye, doesn’t drop a step, simply accepts that we’re in this new house and on vacation without so much as a complaint.

She’s always been like that. Sometimes I think I’ve been parenting on easy mode.

Except there’s no such thing as easy when it comes to little kids.

Just varying shades of hard as hell.

The house is massive and quiet. I consider going to Rafe’s room but decide against it. Steeling myself, I hold Hattie’s hand as she talks on and on about her favorite magical unicorns and which dinosaurs she thinks should get married.

Stegosaurus and velociraptor, obviously.

We walk down the steps and I pause midway to listen, but there’s no sound from anywhere.

It’s spooky, actually.

There are dozens of rooms, all the doors shut. I try one at random, but it’s locked.

I don’t try any others for fear that I’ll find a bunch of dead bodies inside.

Don’t need to scare Hattie this early in the morning.

“Here we go,” I say as I drift back into a huge, industrial-style kitchen.

“This place is so big!!” Hattie runs off, hands battering across every available surface.

“Hold on, sweetie, go slow.” I brace myself for a mess but gaze around with grudging admiration.

It’s an incredible space. Everything gleams. There are pots and pans of all sizes plus tons of room to cook. I poke my head into a massive walk-in refrigerator and find piles of fresh vegetables, meats, eggs, and milks.

“Mommy! Look!”

I jump out, prepared to defend my daughter, but only find an older man in a white jacket laughing as he juggles potatoes.

“Sorry, ma’am, didn’t mean to startle you. I’m Byron, the cook.” He snatches a potato from the air and bends down with a serious frown. “You must be Hattie. How would you like hashbrowns for breakfast, young lady?”

She looks back at me with pure wonder in her eyes. “Can I please?”

“No, it’s okay, we can cook⁠—“

“Nonsense.” Byron gets to work. “I have one job, and it’s making meals. Would you rather I sat around all day, bored out of my mind? No, you wouldn’t do that to me!”

“Mommy, we wouldn’t!” Hattie squeals, clapping her hands.

I reluctantly let Byron make breakfast. He talks Hattie through the process as he does it and I even ask him a few leading questions about the house and where we are and how long he’s worked here. But he deftly sidesteps them all, giving me exactly no information.

“Please, there has to be something you can say,” I whisper as he plates Hattie’s meal. My daughter kicks her feet happily and digs in. “Anything about the grounds, the area around here⁠—“

He glances at me, round face tugged down as he wipes his forehead. He opens his mouth and I think he’s about to say something⁠—

“Hollandaise sauce. That’s what we need! Fresh hollandaise.”

I drink coffee, accept cereal, and get out of there the second Hattie’s satisfied.

It’s hard keeping a brave face for her. But my mind’s a messy whirl of emotions, and I continually circle back to one ugly fact:

I have to get the hell out of here.