Confused, I unbuckle my seatbelt.

  “For the record,” I say, “I’m not giving you a five-star review for this ride.”

  “I don’t give a fuck about that right now, lady.” He hisses, looking as if he’s damn near tears. “Get. Out.”

  I oblige, not bothering to ask another question.

  He speeds away before I can slam the door.

  Shaking my head, I check my watch—completely grateful that I’m a full hour early.

  I take my time walking down the pathway, noticing the lush plants that line both sides, the bright red and pink flowers that I missed the first night that I came here.

  As I near the black iron gate that bears the letter “R” on its bars, my heart begins to race.

  The doors slowly open, welcoming me without question.

  I pull out my phone to schedule another Uber in advance before walking through them.

  John will be there to pick you up in an hour and a half! The alert buzzes.

  As I’m putting it away, it buzzes again.

  John has canceled this ride. Try another driver?

  I agree, and before I can take two steps forward, my phone buzzes yet again.

  Elvin has canceled this ride. Try another driver?

  What the… I continue walking toward the grand, grey-stoned estate and try to find a driver again. And again.

  And again.

  They all eagerly accept my offer, but upon seeing the address, they cancel without reason.

  The hairs on the back of my neck are slowly standing one by one—begging me to catch the clues—and my driver’s panicked face from earlier suddenly comes into view.

  “Please leave if this is where you have to be.”

  My thoughts are now racing a mile a minute, all of them begging me to get the hell out of here.

  I look around, noticing that there are no cars around. No staff.

  No one will ever know.

  Swallowing, I take one last look at the estate and still at the sight of Mister R standing on a lower-level balcony.

  Sipping from a dark red mug, he’s wearing another dark grey suit, watching my every move.

  Even from here, I can see that his eyes are locked on mine, that he’s silently beckoning me to keep moving toward the house.

  Before I can brush off the group of Uber drivers as nothing more than people who may not want to drive out this far, my phone buzzes with another rejection.

  Then a phone call.

  Without taking my eyes off Mister R, I hold it up to my ear.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Miss Jane! This is Terry from Uber!” a woman with a chirpy voice says. “I’ve noticed that you’ve had fifteen rejections within a short time frame, so I’m calling to let you know that you may want to consider changing the address for a chance at a pickup. Things like this trigger our support line from time to time, but I want you to know that it’s pretty common.”

  “Is that really true?”

  “No,” she says, her tone instantly shifts darker. “Change the address if you expect someone to come and pick you up. Change it now.”

  She ends the call before I can utter another word, and I take a large step back.

  Then another.

  Mister R moves the red mug from his mouth and tilts his head to the side.

  Looking beautiful and tempting as ever while the sun highlights every angle of his face, his lips curve into a smile.

  Are you coming to see me? He mouths, and I shake my head.

  His lips part as I continue to walk backward, and he continues watching me until I’m out of his sight, until we’re in the same position that we were on the night when we first “met.”

  When I make it out of the drive, I run until I reach another subdivision—instantly requesting a ride using the address of the first house I see.

  Avery will be there to pick you up in ten minutes!

  I refresh my screen, waiting for the inevitable second alert.

  It comes five minutes later.

  Avery is almost there. Please be ready to get inside the vehicle!

  I suck in a breath as my heart continues racing against my chest.

  What the fuck is going on?

  End of Episode 10

  Episode 11

  Autumn

  Two hours later

  “There’s no record of you ever requesting a ride to the estate in question,” the Uber representative says over the phone. “I’m afraid I don’t know what experiences you’re talking about, Miss Jane.”

  “Look at my ride history,” I say, still on edge from earlier, still unable to sit without trembling. “All those drivers’ denials and such. It literally just happened.”

  “Miss Jane, I don’t see anything.” She sounds exasperated. “I’ve refreshed your account three times in the past five minutes.”

  “Is there a such thing as a ‘No-Go Zone’ for your drivers?” I ask.

  “There are certain neighborhoods we’re unable to service, yes,” she says. “But I don’t see any of that in your account. I don’t see that you’ve ever requested a single ride with us at all, Miss.”

  “What?”

  “Whenever you want to try our service for the first time, you’ll get eight dollars off, on me!” She’s suddenly cheery for no reason. “Have a great day, Miss Jane, okay?”

  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?”

  Shit. “No, I—” I look at my watch. “Would you mind meeting me at my new place instead? It’s only a few miles from Whimstery.”

  “That’s doable,” he says. “Send me the address.”

  I oblige and end the call.

  As I’m opening the Uber app, Mister R’s number crosses my screen again, sending my nerves into overdrive all over again.

  I hit ignore on the third ring, and he texts me.

  Mister R: Pick up the phone, Autumn. We need to talk.

  I focus on securing my “first” discounted Uber ride instead.

  A driver accepts my request within seconds, and there’s no second alert to cancel.

  When I make it to the designated pickup corner, Mister R’s name crosses my screen yet again.

  A part of me longs to answer it, but one ominous question holds me back.

  Who the hell are you?

  End of Episode 11

  Episode 12

  Autumn

  “I need you to look over these new files whenever you get a chance.” Mr. Walsh pushes a new stack of papers toward me, his fifth one of the evening.

  If I never have to read through a stack of our household bills again, it’ll be far too soon.

  I glance at the sheet on top, spotting a copy of an old La Perla receipt for lingerie.

  “Does that first one look familiar at all?” he asks.

  “Yeah.” The date on it is an instant trigger to my memory.

  It’s from a night when I attempted to surprise Nate by wearing something sexy for no reason. One of many attempts to salvage what was left of our dead relationship.

  He came home from work, took one look at me standing in the kitchen, and said, “I don’t think I like how that looks on you,” before going to bed.

  I never bought anything else from La Perla again.

  “I’m confused.” I shrug. “I don’t see what this random receipt has to do with anything.”

  “Your husband is preparing to run the Svengali defense,” he says. “This has to do with everything.”

  I wait for him to elaborate, but all he does is stare at me with worry in his eyes.

  “What’s the Svengali defense?”

  “It’s a sophisticated game of chess over your beginner’s game of checkers.” He pauses. “He’s claiming that you married him with the intent to never work a proper job or go to college, all so you could use his immense wealth to better your life and fund numerous extramarital affairs with men your age.”

  What? I’m not sure whether to laugh or scream, and I can’t believe my own lawyer has the audacity to utter that line with a straight face.

  “Nate is the only man I’ve ever slept with in my entire life,” I say. “I’ve never even dated anyone else.”

  “Right…”

  “Excuse me?”

  “No, excuse me.” He clears his throat. “That’s none of my business. You’ll have to convince the court on that claim, Miss Jane.”

  He takes off his reading glasses and stands to his feet. Then he paces my living room.

  “This is stacking up to be a pretty contentious divorce,” he says. “So, please know that the judge won’t be pleased with any pettiness on your end, like that ‘ban him’ call to Odette’s you made a little while ago.”

  “Come again?” I sit up in my chair. “How do you know about that?”

  “One of my research interns, Ella, found out about it and told me.”

  No, she didn’t…

  I freeze and a sudden wave of uneasiness washes over me.

  There’s no way that anyone except me and Nate could know about that. I never used my real name or phone, and there’s no level of research that could lead anyone to that take.

  Unless…

  My palms sweat as I watch Mr. Walsh continue to pace the floor, and I realize that he hasn’t made eye contact with me once today.

  “We still have the tape of Nate verbally abusing me over dinner, correct?” I say. “I think that’s more than enough to win against whatever he says.”

  “I don’t want to use that in court anymore.” He pulls another receipt from the stack.

  “That’s not what you said last week.”

  “Well, there’s no way to prove it was really your husband or a trained voice actor, especially since you’ve made many payments in the past to a voice actor named Mr. Henry—”

  “Henry Dannon.” I wait for him to look at me, but he still doesn’t connect. “He’s a fellow luthier who helps me tune instruments here or there, and Nate knows that.”

  “If he does, then why did he—” He leaves that sentence unfinished and slides me a photograph. “I’ll contact Mr. Dannon myself. How do you want to explain this away? This looks like an affair to me.”

  I glance down at a side-view picture of Mister R and me standing near the counter of Crafts & Notes over a week ago. The frame captures the exact moment when he trailed a finger against my lips—when he charted a course against every curve of my mouth.

  “I promise it’ll be easy…”

  From this picture and the way we’re staring into each other’s eyes, it looks like we belong together—like we’ve just finished fucking and are enjoying the aftermath.

  “I don’t know who this man is.” I flip over the photo. “Like, that’s an honest fact.”

  “You’re going to have to come up with something better than that,” he says. “Speaking of other things your husband is claiming, things my research team has found…”

  I tune him out as he speaks, watching as he becomes sweatier, guiltier, by the second.

  The tides are turning against me, and I can feel hints of Nate’s influence in every word he speaks.

  “All so you could use his immense wealth to better your life…”

  “Your husband has hired a legal dream team.” His voice is clear again. “They’re putting up a roadblock every time I turn a new corner, and even with him sending my office a few grand in sympathy funds for your case each week, it’s not enough to fight the Goliath we’re dealing with. I have two interns who are—”

  “What did you just say?”

  “Your husband has a legal dream team.”

  “No, no, no.” I narrow my eyes. “The part about my ex-husband paying my lawyer under the table. The part that is literally the definition of a conflict of interest.”

  “Payment is payment, Miss Jane.”

  “All money isn’t good money, Mr. Walsh.”

  Silence.

  “You’re going to need a miracle and a dozen last-minute Hail Mary plays if you want this finished in two years at the rate we’re going.” He changes the subject and continues to avoid eye contact, rambling on and on.

  The writing on the wall is now clearer than it’s ever been.

  This man has never been on my side.

  Nate got through to you long ago.

  “I’ve been working on your case for a very low rate and extending a lot of my time,” he says, “I can’t afford to use my resources as aggressively as I would if you were paying my real fee, you know?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “No, I don’t know shit.”

  The little trust I had in him dissolves, and I feel as alone as I did when Nate first moved me to this town.

  “I’m a businessman.” He’s still talking, giving me a condescending smile. “I gave you a discount because I didn’t think Mr. Taylor would try to drag this out for years. I have other clients who are paying me thousands by the hour, clients who can actually afford me, so it shouldn’t be a surprise that—”