When I pull up to the driveway, I gawk at the palatial house. Who knew there was a fucking castle out here on the spacious land bordering the outskirts of Sandpiper City? I never saw this shit on my maps app, I can tell you that much, and it definitely doesn’t fit with Sandpiper, Oregon’s dynamic.
Sandpiper is a weird combo of big city meets rural, old-fashioned farms. The farms that border the city are comprised of people whose great-great-great-great-granddaddy lived their whole life on that land, and now their generational offspring don’t want to leave. Meanwhile, the highrises and other cityscape popped up out of nowhere and, if you believe the farmers, claim more of God’s green earth for their wicked city ways every year.
There, of course, are the more prominent neighborhoods in Sandpiper that are filled with mansions that are built way too close together for my liking. But I’ve never seen anything like this. Susan Atwood mentioned that I’d be working for the Perdition Estate, but I hadn’t given much thought to what that would mean. However, as I make my way down an insanely long driveway that’s surrounded by rolling hills of well watered and manicured landscaping, toward a house that could rival Buckingham Palace, the word estate suddenly takes on a whole new meaning.
Feeling out of place, I park my moped at the end of the drive. This hunk of metal clearly does not belong here amidst the trimmed hedges and squeaky-clean pavement, so I tuck it away as much as I can beneath a few large trees near an old wrought iron gate. I put out the kickstand and take off my helmet, hanging it on the handlebar before I straighten my clothing.
Missy told me that my uniform and everything I’d need would be here, so I’m wearing the same jacket, tank top, and fake-slacks I wore for the interview. I figured if it was good enough for the interview, it should be a safe bet in case I come across someone important, like whoever the hell owns this place.
I tried to do some sleuthing about the Perdition Estate, but I quickly learned that was a dead end. It seems privacy is one of the many things money can buy, and I didn’t find anything other than the address, which Missy had already supplied.
I wish I had thought to ask Missy more specific questions about everything, but I was busy picturing all the ways my life was going to change for the better and distractedly filling out all the new-hire forms. When I was done, Missy said she’d email me copies of everything and then handed me a thick expensive piece of paper—which was clearly the estate’s letterhead—with the address written on it in a smooth feminine scroll and told me to arrive before dusk.
I didn’t think it was weird that she hadn’t given me a specific time until later. For some reason, her mention of “before dusk”—as if I knew what that meant—didn’t register as unusual until I was looking up when exactly dusk is so that I could make sure I got over here early.
I tentatively walk up the stone steps of the damn palace and knock on the door before wiping my sweaty palms on my pants. The sun is disappearing behind the horizon, and the light is dimming fast. I peer at it worriedly; I don’t want to be late.
Just when I raise my hand to knock again on the massive wooden door, it swings open, and an elderly man wearing a full butler uniform looks down at me. “You must be Miss Gates.”
“Yes,” I say with a smile, tucking my hair behind my ear. “Nice to meet you.”
He gives me a bored look, making it known that it’s not at all nice to meet me. “This is the main entry, Miss Gates. You are supposed to enter through the side gate,” he says with a sigh. “Go past the patio, to the left of the gardens, take a right at the fountain, and head for the iron gate where the graveyard grounds are. You’ll see the small groundskeeper building there. It will have everything you need inside.” Without another word, he shuts the door in my face.
I blink at the wood, not even an inch from my nose. “Oookay then, Grumpy Lurch.”
Turning, I head back down the steps, feeling like I just got smacked down to my third-class place. I really need to learn the Jack Dawson spit technique, dammit.
I walk across the driveway, the gravel crunching beneath my feet as I head for the side gate. It swings open easily with a little squeak, and then I find myself in the grassy side yard. I follow the butler’s instructions as I pass by the enormous, posh patio that’s equipped with a gazebo, inground pool and jacuzzi, and even a damn hedge maze. This place is so extra, I don’t even think there’s a size for it.
It takes me ten minutes to walk through the garden. Ten. Fucking. Minutes.
My own outside “garden” consists of the marijuana plants that Mrs. Lee grows on her windowsill in the house beside mine.
When I finally make it to what must be the groundskeeper building, dusk is here, and I know I need to hurry up, or I’ll be late for my first shift. This place feels like it’s miles from the main house. I’ll need to get here earlier so I don’t have to rush next time.
I approach the small wood and stone structure and yank open the door. It’s nothing but a mostly empty cabin that looks like it was handmade a hundred years ago. I walk inside, my steps thudding on the wooden floor as I flip on a single, really old electrical light that hangs in the middle of the room.
As soon as my eyes adjust, I blink at the sight in front of me. “What the fuck?”
My “uniform” is hanging up on the wall directly across from me with a
