Page 43 of A Thin Line

The way he said it told me the subject was not up for conversation, so I took a bite of my English muffin and decided not to talk after all. But I wondered why he would continue living here if he didn’t like it. In the case of my father and me, we couldn’t move due to lack of money and poor credit, thanks to my dad’s medical bills—but Sinclair didn’t have any such restraints. If I had the money he obviously did, I would live wherever my heart desired.

Maybe it wasn’t that simple. Moving wherever I wanted would have meant leaving Winchester—but if I’d had a job that supported my lifestyle there—like Sinclair—it might not be as easy as I was thinking.

Edna came back in the kitchen, humming to herself a tune that wasn’t familiar to me. Deciding to be adventurous, I took a bite of the salmon. Immediately, I was surprised at how good it tasted, even though I thought it was weird to eat fish for breakfast. Then I took a small spoonful of the oatmeal and loved it too. It was completely unlike the gruel my mother used to make.

And I came to a conclusion: Edna was an excellent cook.

Midway through the meal, Sinclair said, “When we’re done with breakfast, I’ll show you what your job will be today.”

I refrained from asking if it was going to be as demeaning as my work yesterday, because I found it interesting that he would be showing me my tasks today rather than Edna.

Which told me it would likely be something quite different. At least, I hoped so.

Even though he’d indicated as much the day before, I wanted reassurance. “Did my work yesterday meet with your satisfaction?”

“It was acceptable.”

That translated to good enough. I was simply glad I wouldn’t have to do it over again—unless that would become some kind of weekly chore.

We finished eating in silence—and, for the first time since arriving here, my belly was almost stuffed. Viewing my empty dishes, Sinclair asked, “Ready?” Before we walked out of the kitchen, he set his report and cell phone on the end of the table. Soon, we were in the main hallway and walked straight across it. When he opened a door, he revealed another staircase, this one going down.

Meaning this mansion was still bigger than I’d thought.

However, this part of Sinclair’s stately home seemed neglected, ignored. The stairs going down were also marble, but when we got near the bottom, there was a simple concrete one that was a little crumbly. I soon learned that all the stairs were constructed of concrete with marble slabs, so I wondered why one step was missing one. It was also darker and dingier.

Abandoned.

Maybe I would be cleaning down here. I only hoped there was but one level, because that would still leave a lot of square footage.

When we got to the bottom, he flipped on another light switch, illuminating what, at first, looked like the inside of a garage stuffed with things a person couldn’t fit in the house and also couldn’t bear to part with.

How middle class.

Only what was here were not old bowling balls, boxes of a child’s old homework, and Christmas decorations that had fallen out of fashion. At first glance, I could see that this was perhaps the wealthy family’s equivalent. Stacked against a large box were several large framed oil paintings, to begin with, along with various pieces of statuary and old furniture.

“I call this the dungeon,” Sinclair said, “but don’t let your mind go wild. There are no jail cells down here. It’s just dark and cold and there are no windows. The air feels stale. And no one ever comes down here.”

Although the room we were in was huge, the size of a high school gymnasium, that was maybe the size of the center of the mansion—but from the main hallway forward, and it didn’t account for the east and west wings. “How many rooms down here?”

“This is it—except for a couple of closets and a bathroom.”

I felt some relief knowing that, for the most part, what I saw was the extent of it. “Why don’t you use it?”

He chuckled as he walked in between the stacks of stuff. “The description of being a dungeon wasn’t enough for you to figure it out?”

I couldn’t help but smile. “What did it used to be?”

“A ballroom. But it hasn’t been used for that purpose in at least thirty years—probably more. And, if I were to use it that way again, I’d have to find a place to put all this junk and have repairs done.”

“Like the step?”

“Yes. And the heating and cooling down here are ancient—and I don’t even know if the plumbing works anymore. There are probably more problems I’m not even aware of.”

So why did he want me working down here? The name of the space probably did say it all. He wanted me slaving away in a dungeon as more punishment. But he had no way of knowing I would like working down here far better than cleaning toilets. “So do you want me to clean down here? Organize?”

“No. Well…maybe organizing, but that’s not your focus. Your job will be to inventory everything down here. It’s a task I’ve wanted done for a while but, as I’m sure you can imagine, it hasn’t been a priority.”

That sounded like something I might…enjoy. Sifting through unwanted treasures, getting a glimpse at art and history—but I hoped my face didn’t express too much eagerness. I didn’t want him to know that I was growing more comfortable here—and I also feared he might take this task away if he thought I liked it. “So how do I go about doing this?”

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