The Entitled

by Nancy Boyarsky

  How was she going to handle this? Then she remembered that Reinhardt ordered meals delivered all the time, and he did it online. She went back to his computer and clicked the bookmark tab on his browser. There wasn’t a single restaurant or food delivery service listed. She was sure she’d heard him mention a site he used all the time. He paid a yearly membership fee for fast, free delivery of meals, as well as products from vitamins to office supplies and underwear.

  All at once it came to her—onlinewarehouse.com. She typed in the URL and the site popped up. To her relief she was automatically signed in under Reinhardt’s account. First she ordered groceries, including a prepackaged Niçoise salad. To that she added bread, milk, bacon, avocado, cheese, bagged lettuce, oatmeal, berries, tomatoes, butter, and tea. Then she added another meal kit, Italian truffle risotto. She read the list and hurried to the kitchen to see what she might have missed. Did Reinhardt have salt and pepper? No, he didn’t, nor did he have sugar or cream for her coffee. She requested those, too.

  Even as she managed to keep herself busy, the afternoon’s events kept replaying in her head, making her feel shaky and emotionally drained.

  She put in the order for the groceries, adding a special request for the delivery person to buzz her on the intercom, and once admitted to the building, leave the groceries in the hall outside her door.

  This taken care of, Nicole thought of what Abigail had told her about her childhood. She had another hour before she’d have to leave for the police station. She used the time on Reinhardt’s computer, searching for ways to locate people in Eastern Europe.

  First she went onto Google and looked up orphanages in Kiev, not expecting to find anything. Instead there was a bonanza of information, even the phone number and address for the Kiev City Orphanage. She called, only to reach someone who didn’t speak English. Unable to make herself understood, she wasn’t even sure she’d reached the right number.

  She found other websites that claimed to be able—for a fee—to locate birth parents for adoptees and adoptees for birth parents. She also read reviews that said some of these sites belonged to scammers who charged up front and never reported back.

  One website looked more promising. It was a bulletin board for people who were looking for loved ones lost in the morass of Ukraine’s social services agencies—orphanages, detention centers, foster care, and adoption agencies. Nicole posted Abigail’s original name and age, listing her own email as the contact.

  She stopped working when her doorbell rang. Glancing at her watch, she realized she had only twenty minutes before she had to leave for the police station. She retrieved her groceries from the hallway and slapped together a cheese sandwich, which she ate while she changed. She pulled her hair back into a ponytail so she could hide it under the baseball cap. She put on the crested windbreaker and glanced out the window. She’d already ordered a cab to pick her up at the address two doors away, on the opposite side of Reinhardt’s flat from her point of entry. Looking out the window, she could see the car was already there. She was heading out when she realized she couldn’t take her purse. She wanted to look like a boy, or at least gender neutral—someone who’d never carry a Kate Spade bag.

  She stuffed her keys, burner phone, pepper spray, and wallet into the pockets of the jacket and was out the door.

  §

  The Belgravia Police Station was an L-shaped three-story building. Like the juvenile detention center, there was a big royal crest on the wall facing the street. The building had an odd design. The upper two floors featured a sectional metal façade that jutted out incongruously over the bottom floor. It looked as if a huge flying saucer had made a crash landing on the roof of a one-story building.

  Inside, Nicole asked the officer at the desk for DCI Norton. She was shown into an interview room much like the one where Abigail had been questioned. She took off her cap and placed it on the table. She fidgeted for several minutes, wishing she had her smart phone to distract her. At last Norton and Kirby walked in.

  After a brief greeting, Norton turned on the recording device and recited his name, the date, and other information required. As before, he had Nicole and Kirby do the same.

  Finally he looked at Nicole. “Now what’s this all about?”

  She explained what had happened in the underground, how she’d managed to save herself but had sent her attacker off the platform to his death.

  “Why do you suppose someone would want to push you in front of a train?” he said.

  “It must have something to do with Abigail Fletcher’s case,” Nicole said. “Whoever framed her doesn’t want a private detective poking around, asking questions.”

  “In the first place, this is police business. You shouldn’t be attempting your own investigation. It’s also illegal to work in the UK without a work permit.”

  “I was hired by an L.A.-based company to fly to London, pick up Abigail Fletcher, and bring her back to Los Angeles. When she was arrested, I was asked by my company to stay on at the request of her parents. I’m to look after her if she makes bail. Meanwhile her solicitor suggested I talk to people who knew Sami to see what was going on with him. I’m not employed by anyone in the UK. I’m serving an overseas client.”

  “I don’t give a toss who you’re working for,” Norton said. “You should go home. We’ve been keeping track of your comings and goings. After what happened in the underground, it’s clear we’re not the only ones. You’ve attracted the attention of some very dangerous people. As for Abigail Fletcher, I can tell you this is a lost cause. We have compelling evidence that she murdered Sami Malouf.”

  “And I’m telling you, she was framed.” Nicole felt herself losing her temper. Her face grew hot, her voice louder. “You should have seen the state she was in when she arrived at the hotel that night. She was traumatized from an assault, and she’d been drugged. She wasn’t capable of hurting anyone.”

  Norton gave her a look of supreme impatience. “I’m not here to debate the case with you. I’m sure her lawyer will present these arguments in court, and the jury will consider them. But it’s against the law to interfere with police business.”

  “I’m not interfering—”

  “And I strongly suggest you return home.”

  “You have my statement. Am I free to go?”

  Norton held up his hands in mock surrender. “By all means. Just sign this form acknowledging your statement is true, and you’re free to leave.”

  She read the paper he’d placed in front of her. It seemed straightforward enough, simply attesting that she’d told the truth during her recorded statement. She signed it and stood. Norton got up, too, and handed her his card.

  “Thanks,” she said. “I already have one.”

  “This has my mobile number on the back so you can reach me directly. If you stumble across any information, please give me a call.”

  “Sure thing,” she said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in her voice.

  On the ride back to Reinhardt’s apartment, she thought about the undercurrent of her conversation with DCI Norton. He knew she wasn’t going home. When he gave her his card and asked to be kept informed, it was a sign he thought her investigation might prove fruitful. This lifted her spirits after the horror of the afternoon. She had one job to do—prove that Abigail had been framed.

  She was exhausted from her long day, but she promised herself she’d be up early in the morning. There were aspects of this crime she’d yet to explore.

  She’d have to dig much deeper to get to the heart of it.

  Thirteen

  As Abigail headed for the group home’s art class, she was feeling better. She liked to draw. In school, art took her mind off the bad stuff in her life, and she was good at it.

  Once seated, she looked around. Several of the girls were staring at her, studying her new clothes. She could feel their hostility and wondered if these were the ones Niahm had told to make her life miserable here. Now she didn’t feel like drawing anymore
. She put down her pencil and left.

  Once she was alone in her room, Abigail’s mood darkened even more. She couldn’t believe Sami was really dead, nor that she was here, facing trial for his murder. It seemed unreal, as if she were playing a part in one of those old movies she used to like. This reminded her of what Niamh had told her, that they hung convicted murderers here in England.

  The hanging scene from the movie popped into her head. This time she remembered it in greater detail—the terrible sound of something snapping as the trap door opened, the man’s feet kicking briefly after he fell, then going limp.

  Her stomach turned over. She ran for the toilet down the hall and made it just before everything she’d eaten that day came up. She lay on the floor, drenched in sweat. It was possible she’d be convicted even though she was innocent. She couldn’t sit around this place waiting for a trial that would decide if she was going to live or die. She had to find a way out. If she got bail, it would be easy to run away. But her solicitor said it wasn’t a sure thing. That meant she had to do something now, before they had a chance to put her on trial.

  How hard would it be to escape from this place? It wasn’t really secure, not like the big detention center. She could sneak out, change her name, and take on a new identity. It would be easy to find work as a waitress. Just about every restaurant she passed had a help wanted sign in the window. Then she remembered she wasn’t allowed to work in this country because she was a foreigner, and her American accent would give her away.

  But there were people who paid cash for jobs like baby sitting and dog walking. Abigail didn’t care for kids, but she liked dogs. Yes, she could get work as a dog walker. Then she started worrying about where she’d sleep until she saved enough to rent a room. Staying in a park or a homeless encampment was out of the question.

  That was when she remembered Robert, a boy she’d met in the library at King’s College. Every time she ran into him—which was often enough to make her wonder if he was stalking her—he asked her out. He’d offered to take her to dinner at Steibels, a trendy and expensive new restaurant in Sloane Square. She’d sat next to him once on the bus from King’s to her dorm. When he got up at his stop, he’d pointed out his apartment. It was in a fancy building with a uniformed doorman. She’d concluded that he must come from a wealthy family like hers. She could ring his bell and say…what? That she was mugged and needed money for a ride back to the dorm. Then she’d pretend to let him talk her into going up to his apartment. The rest would be easy.

  He’d probably expect sex. She pushed the thought away. She’d deal with that when it came up. Nothing could be worse than facing a murder trial and what might happen afterward.

  She walked around the house, looking for a way to escape. Of course, she’d have to wait until everyone was asleep. The doors on the ground floor were locked, and the windows were fixed so they could only be opened eight inches or so—not enough for her to squeeze through. The windows in the room she shared with Megan, her roommate, opened all the way. But they were on the third floor.

  Abigail went back to their room, opened a window, and looked out. This third floor was an addition set in the center of the second-floor roof. Abigail climbed out the window. She walked to the roof’s edge and looked down. From here it was a straight drop. She circled the roof’s perimeter, but couldn’t find a way to climb down.

  She went down to the second floor and looked around. Here, too, the windows could be opened. The ground was closer but not close enough to jump. At the sound of someone climbing the stairs, she ducked into the bathroom and locked the door. After opening the window, she spotted a trellis attached to the nearby wall. It supported the sturdy trunk of an old climbing rose. Since it was March, the bush was bare of roses, and its few leaves looked half-dead. With some effort, she hoisted herself onto the window sill, put her foot on the trellis, and shifted her weight onto it. It held firm. She felt a surge of excitement. This would be her escape route.

  After that, the day seemed endless. She tried watching TV, but was too restless to sit still. She went up to her room only to decide to go back down and swipe some food from the kitchen to take with her when she left.

  She quietly walked downstairs. She took enough bread and cold meat to make a couple of sandwiches. She pulled a bag out of the trash, put the food in it, and tucked it down the front of her shirt. She was halfway up the stairs when Sarah, the director, hurried up behind her.

  “Abigail,” Sarah said. “Are you all right? I noticed you didn’t stay for the class, and you seem agitated. If something’s bothering you, let’s sit down and talk about it. Maybe I can help.”

  Abigail stopped where she was, hot with anger.

  She turned around and shouted, “Help with what? Can you clear me of this murder I didn’t commit? How about unlocking the door and letting me out for a walk? Maybe you could help with that.”

  “I know you’re upset, Abigail, but sometimes talking about—”

  Abigail turned and hurried up the stairs. She ran down the hall to her room and slammed the door. She would have locked it, but there was no lock. A moment later, she heard a knock at the door. She ignored it.

  The knocking stopped, then began again. The door opened and Sarah stuck her head in. Abigail was lying on the bottom bunk, with her face to the wall.

  “Forgive me for not respecting your privacy,” Sarah said, “but I have to make sure you’re all right.”

  Abigail realized she’d have to put on some semblance of being all right, or this woman would never leave her alone.

  “I’m sorry if I was rude, Sarah. But I’m so tired. I couldn’t sleep last night. I’m going to take a nap if that’s okay.”

  “Of course. I’ll send someone up to wake you at dinner time.”

  “Thanks.”

  The door closed and Sarah’s footsteps retreated down the steps.

  A nap was out of the question. Abigail was too distracted and wired by the prospect of getting away from this place. To pass the time, she decided to try drawing again. It would be a distraction now that she was alone, without those girls radiating their hostility at her.

  Once again she went downstairs, this time to the supply cupboard for a notebook and pencil. Back in her room, she closed the door and lay on her bed. She started with a portrait of Sami. Looking at it made her cry, so she turned the page and began doodling scenes from the youth detention center. She drew an unflattering portrait of Niamh and gave it a critical look. Something was missing. Then she realized what it was—revenge. She sketched herself standing nearby and drew a gun in her hand pointed at Niahm’s head. She added a balloon above the gun with the word bang inside, as if the gun was thinking about shooting but hadn’t actually done it yet.

  This inspired her to draw everyone she’d run into since she was taken into custody. Memory failed when it came to the detective who’d arrested her. She portrayed him as a cartoon lizard in a bobby’s uniform.

  Abigail was annoyed, then perturbed that Sarah kept dropping by her room to check on her. On one of her visits, Sarah brought a cup of tea and some cookies. Abigail understood she was being monitored. It made her wonder if Sarah could read her mind and knew she was planning to escape.

  After a couple hours, Abigail grew sick of doodling. She was staring out the window when Sarah opened the door to announce dinner.

  The evening seemed even longer than the afternoon. Abigail forced herself to spend time in front of the TV with the other girls. Around 9:00 she went up to her room and put on her pajama top, and over that, both of her outfits. Since her coat was in the evidence room of the police station, she needed to layer up. It would be cold outside at night. At bedtime, she got under the covers fully dressed. The bagged sandwiches were under her pillow.

  She pretended to be asleep when Megan came in and got ready for bed. Finally around 12:30, the house was quiet except for the steady sound of Megan’s breathing. Abigail arranged her pillows under the covers in a way she hoped resembled
a sleeping body. Then she got up and tiptoed down to the second-floor bathroom. She silently closed the door before opening the window and climbing out. With one foot on the trellis, she swung herself around so she was facing the building.

  The trellis creaked, and Abigail realized it wasn’t as strong as she’d thought. She climbed down quickly. She was only halfway down when the trellis started peeling away from the wall. She was about eight feet from the ground when the support collapsed with a snap! She landed on the bottom branches of the rose bush. It cushioned her fall, but its thorns dug into her thighs and butt. In pain, she yanked herself free and hid in the shadows, waiting to see if anyone heard.

  The house remained silent. No lights came on. No one sounded an alarm.

  Abigail got up and limped into the night.

  Fourteen

  Nicole dreamed of Sacha, Abigail, and Mary Ellen that night. The dream was a mishmash, as her dreams often were. As it moved along, the three young women merged into a single person who had to be protected from an evil force that seeped in through the keyhole, under the door, and through windows that wouldn’t stay shut. At 5:00 a.m. she woke with a start.

  Convoluted as the dream had been, it had somehow clarified her thoughts. Sacha had said she was considering applying to Nannies International for work, and now she was missing. There was no real evidence Nannies International was anything but a legitimate enterprise. But Nicole couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t.

  Certain she wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep, she got up, made coffee, and carried her mug into Reinhardt’s study. She pulled her copy of the nannies flyer from her purse and typed the URL at the bottom of the sheet into her browser. A colorful, well-designed website popped up offering nanny jobs in the Middle East. The main page showed several women in hijabs smiling broadly, wheeling baby carriages. It was recruiting women aged eighteen to twenty-five, who were fluent in English and Arabic or other Middle Eastern languages. The site had an online form and instructed applicants to upload a resume, photo, and scan of a valid passport.