“They took her to the hospital in Southampton. I’ve just come from there. She’s unconscious. I brought Mia home—I need to get some of her things in a bag and take them to her. Maybe you can help me with that?”
“Of course.” I bring the glass to my lips, then change my mind and set it down again. I lean forward, like I’m going to whisper. “Are you positive she’s unconscious? I mean, could she be faking it?”
Okay, too fast, definitely too fast. He jerks his head away, and he looks … afraid. He looks afraid of me.
“Look, this is going to be a lot to take in, Harvey—okay if I call you Harvey? Because I know a little about Hannah. No. Scrap that. I know a lot about Hannah. There are things you don’t know. And I’m about to tell you, and it won’t make any sense at first, I know that, but just bear with me, okay? This is really important. Okay? Please? Before we go on, how are you feeling? I mean, physically. Are you in any pain? Are you feeling anything out of the ordinary?” With my chin, I point to his hand around his glass. “I can see you’re shaking a bit there. Are these tremors?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
I blink a few times and lean back. “Harvey, listen to me. What I’m about to say is going to shock you, but you have to trust me. She’s lying.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “What are you—”
I lift my hand up. “Whatever she’s taken, she knows exactly what she’s doing. It’s a setup. She will recover, fully. She may even be faking it right now. It would be interesting to know what her vital signs are. I wonder if we could—”
His lips tremble. “Oh, God!”
“I’m afraid that you and Mia will get hurt.” I glance at the video screen, quickly checking if she’s all right and breathing.
He takes his glasses off and runs two fingers over his eyes.
I stand up quickly, sending the chair bouncing on the floor. “Wait here.”
I return with the journal and open it to the first entry, the one about her wedding, the invitation still wedged between the pages. I set it flat on the table and push it under his nose.
“Look, Harvey.” I jab a finger on the page. “This is her journal. I found it in her closet. See the ink? That color? That’s from the Montblanc you gave her after Mia was born. Except this is about your wedding, and Mia wasn’t born yet. And look, all the way through those pages, same thing.” I fan through the pages. I’m breathless and I’m speaking too fast, but I’m desperate. I need to get a great deal out in a short time and the words tumble out in a mess. “Here. This is where the lies begin. The ones that I know of, anyway. I’m sure if you read it you’ll find some more.” I tell him about the tea I never made that makes her tired all the time, I show him the entry about the mythical doctor’s appointments I’m supposed to have booked for her, the weird story she tells about me forbidding her coffee. “And it gets worse, wait for it.” I lick my thumb and flip through pages until I find the right one. “There.” I poke my finger at the page, like I’m trying to stab it. “She wants to tell her psychiatrist that she’s afraid of me. I mean, really? She says I’m obsessed with Mia”—we both glance at the monitor—“and I’m going to hurt her or something. And then you, and her. Here, I’m going to hurt all of you apparently.” I laugh. “It’s all lies, Harvey! I swear to God, I would never, ever hurt Mia. Or anyone, for that matter.”
He’s looking down at the diary, slowly running his finger over the page, then turning to another. A vein starts to throb on his temple.
“There’s stuff about you, too. Check this out.” I quickly flip through pages until I find the entry about putting Mia on solid foods. “She says here that I insisted. Makes no sense. But you know what she said to me that day? That it was your idea”—I jab my finger in his direction—“to put Mia on solid foods.” I sit back in my chair. “I mean, really? What the fuck, right? It’s you, it’s me, but the whole time, of course, it’s her. She is weaving this great big web of lies and laying down evidence like a trail of crumbs. We’re all going to get trapped, Harvey. We’re all going to get fucked.”
I sit back, breathless, and take a big swig of my glass.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handkerchief, shakes it open, and uses it to clean his glasses. We’re both silent for a moment, and all you can hear is the sound of his breath through his nose. He runs his hand over his face.
“Oh, Claire.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
There’s a second where the room tilts around me then rights itself again. Harvey is back on the diary, slowly reading the entries.
Maybe I misunderstood. Maybe he didn’t say my name. Maybe I’m hearing things that are not there. And who could blame me? I tell myself to breathe. He probably said Louise, and in my mind I heard Claire because I am all over the place. Still, a flutter of anxiety has settled in the pit of my stomach, and I push my chair back slowly. “I’ll check on Mia.” But as I walk past, he grabs my arm and digs his fingers into my flesh.
“Harvey! What are you doing?”
“Where did you find this?” He’s working his jaw sideways, like he’s very angry. Angrier than I’ve ever seen him.
“I told you. I found it in her closet. There’s a compartment at the back, but you know that already. It clicks open when you push the panel. Sort of secret, I guess—can you let me go now?”
Just as I say that, he raises his other hand and hits me across the face. It’s so hard, so violent, that it sends my head spinning, and for a blink of time, I black out. I am on the floor. I am on my hands and knees, spit dribbling out of my mouth. My phone has fallen out and is spinning on the tiles right next to my knee. I reach for it, my vision blurry as I desperately work both thumbs to unlock it, but he kicks my hands, sending the phone clattering across the floor. I think I yell out. I don’t know. Maybe it’s in my head. I look at my throbbing fingers, my shaking hands, and I don’t know what to do. Then he grabs a fistful of hair and pulls. I cry out, my hands scrambling blindly to grab hold of his.
“Let me go, just stop doing that! Why are you doing this? Harvey, stop! Stop!”
He bends down, still clutching at my hair. “What’s this?” He picks up my cell, studies it, then shows it to me.
The phone is unlocked, and the video I took earlier of Dominic and me is still loaded, although it’s not playing. You can see from the frozen still that we’re in the office, Harvey’s bookshelf clearly visible in the background. If you didn’t know better, you’d think it was Harvey in the shot, standing in front of his oak desk and leaning casually against it. You can’t see his head, only up to his Adam’s apple, but the blue-and-white-striped shirt from Barney’s is definitely his, as are the silver square cufflinks.
I’m there, too. On my knees, although you can’t see those because of the way the shot is framed. But my head is level with his waist, and I’m looking up at him.
“What the fuck is this?” he asks, sitting down again so that I am now crouched at his feet. He hasn’t let go of my hair.
He kicks the chair next to him. “Sit down,” he says, releasing me. I’m trying to breathe again. Great big gulps of air hiccupping out of me. I put my hand against my cheek and hoist myself up on the chair. He points an angry finger at my face. “Don’t move.”
“Why are you doing this to me?” I whine.
He ignores my question, presses the play button.
I don’t want to, Mr. Carter. Please don’t.
That’s me talking. I don’t need to see the screen to know that I’m looking up at my boss. My eyes are pleading. So is my voice. You can see clearly the buckle of his belt loosely hanging by the side of his hip—and it is his belt, from his collection—as he unzips his pants right in front of my face.
“Come on,” he says—in the video, that is—and his voice is strange, low and hoarse. His other hand comes to rest on the top of my head, pushing it closer. I try to resist—Please, Mr. Carter, I don’t want to—but he’s a lot stronger than I am, and the glint of hi
s gold band catches the light as he pulls my head toward his groin, then all you can hear is a low groan coming from his throat.
Harvey—the one sitting at the table, not the one in the video—is clutching my cellphone so tight that his knuckles have turned white.
“What the fuck is this?” he asks.
“It’s—my friend,” I say, wiping the snot with the back of my hand. The video is still playing in the background. Yeah, baby, that’s it! Oh yeah … keep going … baby… Even with everything that’s happening right now, it’s making me cringe with embarrassment. I half stand to reach for it so I can turn it off, but Harvey slams the table with his hand, making me jump.
“I said, don’t move! If you do that again I will hit you, do you understand?”
“Okay, yes, I understand.”
“Now. Who is this man, and why is he in my house, wearing my clothes? Why are you calling him by my name? Is this some kind of setup? You’re going to blackmail me with this? You want money? Is that it?”
“No, I can explain—let me explain, okay? It was for Hannah. If I could get her to believe it was you—”
“Why?”
I’m trying to breathe. Trying to gather my thoughts. “I used to know Hannah, before I came here, I mean. She was my little brother’s nanny, briefly.”
“I know that. I know who you are, Claire Petersen.”
“How do you know?”
“You work in my house, what do you think? I did my due diligence. Unlike my stupid wife. What does this have to do with me?”
Unlike my stupid wife. Up until this moment I thought maybe he’d believed everything in the diary. Maybe he thought I was some crazy person out to get his family. Then I thought maybe they’re in this together, whatever this is, some crazy scam at my expense. But now? I don’t know anything anymore.
“Do you know what Hannah did to my family?”
“I just said that!” he snaps. “I know everything there is to know about her, and about you. I’m asking again, what does this have to do with me!”
I take a breath, try to sift some coherent thoughts out of the panic that’s engulfed me. “I was going to make a trade. I wanted her to admit it wasn’t true, what she’d said about my father. In return I would delete the video.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
Slowly, I retrieve a folded piece of paper from my pocket and with shaking hands, open it flat on the table. “I prepared her confession.” I slide it across to him. He picks it up and begins to read.
“My name is Hannah Wilson and I am a liar.” He turns to me. “What are you, twelve?” He shakes his head, then resumes reading. “Ten years ago, my father and I came up with a scam which worked like this: I would work as a nanny for a very wealthy family, then I would immediately accuse the father of sexual abuse. At this point I would demand to be sent home, and then I would threaten to sue in civil court for millions. We banked on the fact that the family would rather quietly settle out of court than face a scandal. Unfortunately, the Petersens, the family I chose as my target, didn’t agree to my demands. Gerald Petersen died of a heart attack as a direct result of the legal and public ordeal, followed shortly after by the death of his wife, Amelia Petersen. Although I was young and under the influence of my father, I acknowledge I am directly responsible for both their deaths. Everything I said about Gerald Petersen’s actions was a lie. He never touched me. I made it all up for financial gain.”
He folds the piece of paper again and slips it in his shirt pocket.
“I think Hannah would have realized it’s not me.”
I half shrug. “I wasn’t going to show it to anyone. Not even on social media.” I liked you too much to do that to you. “But she didn’t know that. Would she want to see it on YouTube? She’d have to tell the world that the man fucking your housekeeper in your office, wearing your clothes, your cufflinks, your wedding ring, is not you. How would she think your firm, your partners, your clients, would react to the scandal? Would people believe you both, if you swore it wasn’t really you? It’s pretty clear I’m being coerced—no one would expect you to admit to it. And how long before someone figured out who she is? That the wife of the man in the sex tape is none other than Hannah Wilson, a woman who herself once inserted herself into a respected family, only to accuse the husband of sexual assault. Right in this neighborhood, in fact.”
He raises an eyebrow and shakes his head slowly, like he’s conceding me the point.
“Nobody gives a shit about your father, Claire. Move on. He was a dirty old man.”
I slap my hand down hard on the table. “No, he wasn’t! That’s not true. He was a decent man, and she tricked him.”
“For Christ’s sake, grow up. Look it up, do your research. After Hannah’s accusation became public, more young girls came forward. It’s documented—talk to his lawyer. Your father was a pervert and he’d been fiddling with girls for years. Why do you think your mother killed herself?”
I feel like I’m moving sideways, like I’m going to fall. My mouth is open, but no words come out. I’m staring at him, trying to understand why he would say such a thing.
“It’s a lie,” I finally manage to say. “And how would you even know that? Did Hannah tell you that?”
“I married Hannah. Do you really think I wouldn’t look into her background? Take a look around you. I’m a very rich man. I need to protect myself. I found out about the case and her role in it. Did that bother me? Not really. It has nothing to do with me. I wish she’d told me; I don’t know why she would keep it a secret. But at this point it’s water under the bridge, as far as I’m concerned.” And then he hits me again. A backhander that sends me flying to the floor, my teeth rattling and my mouth filling with blood. “But you have a fucking nerve.” He stands above me and bends down, his face inscrutable in a burst of light, and everything goes black.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The pain in my head is shocking, blinding. I open my eyes, feel the coarse surface of a rug against my cheek. Light through the bottom of a door. It takes a second for the world to come into focus. I’m on the floor of my own room. My chest hurts as if I’ve held my breath for too long.
I sit up slowly, notice the blood on my T-shirt. I touch my mouth gingerly and feel the dried blood on my chin. I’m okay, I think. My heart is still hammering as I emerge from the dream I left behind. I was in a big crumbling house. I had Mia in my arms and the floor was full of holes. You could see through below in places, where slats were missing and bits of plaster had fallen off and lay crumbled below. Before taking a step, I’d check the floor with my toe and only move forward if it felt solid enough. But then suddenly my arms were empty and it was Hannah holding Mia. She had her back to me and was a few steps ahead, navigating her way around with the confidence of a tightrope walker. Then there was a loud crack and they fell through in a cloud of gray dust, and I screamed for help. I screamed and screamed but no one came.
The sound of Mia crying erupts through the monitor, and for a moment I think I’m still trapped in the nightmare. I hold on to the bed frame and pull myself up. The side of my waist aches, like I’ve been kicked. Harvey. Where’s Harvey? How did I get in here? I just need to breathe. I try to remember, but all I get are snatches, like flash photographs. I’m on the floor in the kitchen. Harvey panting, dragging me. Pulling me by the arms, jerkily down the few steps that lead to this floor. My limbs too heavy. Then I’m in here, on the rug. I can’t move. A loud noise in my brain, like a drill. Then nothing.
I put one hand against the wall to steady myself and look around for my cell, but then I remember. He has it. I try the door. It’s locked. That makes no sense because there’s no lock on my door, no keyhole, nothing. I put one eye against the gap between the door and the wall, where a sliver of light shines through. About eye level is a break, like a thick black line. Like a bolt that’s been drawn across it. Except there is no bolt. Then I remember the drilling sound.
He has locked me up in
my own room.
I pull hard on the handle, but it’s no use. I slam my fists against the door and call out his name. I kick the door, and all the while Mia is wailing. I sit on the bed, shaking, take the baby monitor in my hands and speak into it, as if that’s going to make a difference. I’m here, sweetie, it’s okay, I can hear you, I’ll come as soon as I can.
The sash window behind me opens onto an alleyway that runs between this house and the side of neighboring buildings, with a fire escape running up and down the facades. It has thick steel bars on the outside, but I open it anyway, and a warm gust blows in, bringing with it smells of cooking, curry, whatever—and it’s making me even more nauseous. I try the bars and they don’t budge. It goes without saying. I could scream for help, but what would that do? He’s got all the cards. He’ll claim he never knew who I really was, that Hannah hired me in good faith. That he found the diary, Hannah is in the hospital, and he locked me up while he got the cops. That’s what I’d say in his position. Then I imagine what the real Louise Martin would say, considering I spent an hour with her, picking her brain. She’ll pick me out of a lineup before I have time to say salted caramel mocha.
I pull the sash window back down and put my hands over my ears. I could just turn off the monitor, but I don’t want to. Still, it’s unbearable.
Two hours later, I’m sitting on my bed, my arms wrapped around my knees, when I hear the bolt being dragged open and Harvey appears at the door.
“How you feeling? You all right?” he asks, as if I had a headache and went to lie down. As if he didn’t just punch the daylights out of me. So it’s official. He’s completely crazy. I stare at him under heavy eyelids.
“Don’t just sit there. You can come out now,” he says.
“Mia’s crying,” I say.
He sighs. “No kidding.”
* * *
I can barely walk, my body sore and bruised. He holds the door of the elevator open for me, but there’s no way I’m going in there with him.
The Housekeeper Page 18