by Imani King
"Jesus Christ, Jennifer. Are you a serial killer or something?"
"What?!" I asked, standing up again, giggling at the incongruous question. "Am I a serial killer? You need to work on your pillow talk, Laird McLanald."
"Well you've got to have something wrong with you. You're great with kids, you're beautiful, you're sexy as hell, you're smart, you're funny. What's the catch?"
I watched him as he tried with moderate success to fit his still semi-engorged cock back into his shorts. Beautiful. He called me beautiful. The only other person who had ever called me beautiful was my grandmother. I froze a little at the thought of her and tried to keep joking around with Darach:
"You got me, I'm a serial killer. And I only kill Scottish men with huge dicks."
He'd seen the look on my face, though.
"What, Jenny? Is something wrong?"
But the afternoon was too lovely and Darach was too sexy and perfect and I didn't want to ruin it by questioning it so I waved it off.
"What? No, everything's fine. Especially you."
He gave me a hard smack on the ass as we walked back to the spot on the beach where Cameron was still sleeping - "I'll take care of you tonight, Jennifer Robinson."
Spending time with the Laird - and with Cameron - during that early summer was strange. It was strange mostly because it didn't feel strange, it felt ideal in so many ways I hadn't expected. One of my friends back home was dating a man with two children and I'd caught myself thinking about it a few times, certain it would never be right for me. But Cameron wasn't a hindrance and I didn't resent her her father's attentions. For his part Darach just seemed happy to see Cameron so confident and secure with me. Those lazy Scottish afternoons lulled all three of us into thinking that because we felt like a family, we were a family.
But we weren't. I caught myself fantasizing a few times, pretending Diane wasn't in the picture and I was more than just the nanny and the summer fling but it was too painful to let those daydreams spin out too far. When Darach told me he had to fly to Switzerland for business I half-expected it to be good-bye, but he followed it up by telling me it was only for two weeks.
"What did you think, Jennifer? That I was just going to fly off to Europe and never see you again?"
Well, yeah, I kinda did think that.
I was very conscious of not wanting to pressure Darach, though, and not just for the old-fashioned reasons my grandmother had told me about never letting a man see you cling. He had too much stress in his life already - I wanted our time together to be happy for both of us, a respite from misery, not a cause of it.
Chapter 11
Darach left in the helicopter on a foggy Sunday morning. I tried to hide my emotions at his departure but he could see I was upset.
"Jennifer. Chin up. You're beautiful. I can't wait to see you again and it's only two weeks."
He gave me one of his slow kisses and then got into the copter, waving and smiling at me as it took off. I managed to smile back, only allowing myself a small teary-eyed moment when he was out of sight. When I went back inside for some breakfast Mrs. Clyde gave me a hug. She was a kind woman, of that there was no doubt, but she wasn't given to hugging and it surprised me a little.
"Och, don't worry Jenny. He'll be back soon. He's always flying off to Switzerland or Dubai or Sydney, it's normal. Chin up."
It was the same phrase - chin up - that Darach had used.
"He likes you, Jenny. I can see it when he's with you. You've got nothing to worry about, lassie."
By that point, in spite of what I'd been telling myself over and over again about it being the summer only, about seizing days and living in the moment and all of that Oprah stuff, I had already fallen for Darach completely. I tried not to think about it, but it was always there in the back of my mind.
Any moroseness over Darach's absence took a back seat that night, though, when Cameron came back from London and her weekly visit to the dreaded Diane. I met her on the helipad and as soon as I felt the stiffness in her small body when I went to give her a hug I knew something was wrong. She'd never been that way with me before and it made me wonder if her mother had said something to scare her. Cameron was four years old, she wasn't old enough to be wily yet and I was fairly certain she'd mentioned me to her mother. Given what I knew of Diane, it seemed fair to assume she'd said something back.
I didn't ask Cameron anything specific, though - I wanted to give her time to ask me herself if she had any questions or wanted to mention something that may have been bothering her. Looking back, it may not have been the best idea. When we walked back into Castle McLanald I noticed one of the part-time groundsmen coming down the main staircase. That was a little odd. The only rooms up there were Darach's and a series of guest bedrooms that only needed dusting and vacuuming every week or so - something the maids took care of. Our eyes met briefly but he just gave me a curt nod and kept going.
"Cameron! How was London, my wee lassie?" Mrs. Clyde greeted Cameron with enthusiasm as she always did but she was met with the same flat response I'd experienced on the helipad.
"Are you hungry? How about some toast and Marmite - it's your favorite!"
We both watched Cameron nod silently and exchanged a look of concern over her head as she sat down at the table. She ate her toast quietly and said she wanted to go to her bedroom, which was not a normal request from a child who had a keen loathing of bedtime.
"Cameron, are you alright little one?"
Mrs. Clyde was bending down to the child and holding the back of her hand flat against her forehead.
"Please," Cameron finally spoke up in a small, quavering voice. "I want to go to bed Miss Robinson."
So I took her up to her room and gave her a bath, something she usually loved. That night she just lay passively in the water waiting for me to wash her hair and then headed straight for her bed as soon as her pajamas were on. What the hell? I was about to go downstairs and ask Mrs. Clyde to call Diane and ask if Cameron had been OK over the weekend but there was a sudden sharp retching noise and I jerked my head around just in time to see Cameron racing back to the bathroom with her hand over her mouth. I ran after her, pulling her hair back and holding it out of the way as she threw up violently in the toilet. When she was finished I wet a facecloth and wiped her mouth with it and offered her a glass of water to wash her mouth out.
"Cameron? What's wrong? Did something happen in London?" I asked, trying to keep my voice calm even as anger started to rise up in the pit of my stomach. Because of course something happened in London. Four year olds don't randomly transform into fearful zombies after a happy - or, what should be happy - weekend with family.
For a second I could see Cameron wrestling with herself. She leaned into me and seemed just about ready to let me pick her up and carry her back to bed but she pulled away at the last minute. I leaned down to give her a kiss on the forehead but she still wouldn't meet my eyes.
"Cameron you know where the button is," I told her - she had a little contraption with a button on it that she could press that would send an alert to my phone if she woke up during the night frightened or sick - "if you're scared or you don't feel well you can just press it and I'll come and check on you, OK?"
"OK, Miss Robinson."
Cameron stayed firmly in her shell for the next couple of days, barely eating a thing and mostly refusing to interact with anyone, including me, beyond one-word answers to direct questions. I left a couple of messages on Darach's phone letting him know what was going on and suggesting either I or Mrs. Clyde take the girl to a doctor and maybe, hopefully, get a referral to a child psychologist. He gave me the go-ahead and I booked her an appointment with her regular doctor at the end of the week.
She cracked the day before the appointment, though. At 6 a.m. the little chime on my phone went off indicating that Cameron had pressed the button. I rushed to her room and found her sobbing and retching in bed. The only reason she hadn't thrown up all over herself was because there w
as nothing in her belly after she refused dinner the night before.
"OK, Cameron," I sat down beside her and put my arm around her shoulder, unsure what level of comfort she was ready to accept, "OK. It's OK. Did you have a nightmare?"
Instead of answering she looked up at me with her big, round eyes and whispered her own question:
"Is Daddy going to die, Miss Robinson?"
It took me a moment to let her words sink in and even then I couldn't quite keep the shock out of my voice. But a dam had broken inside Cameron and it all came spilling out.
"Mummy said Daddy is going to die. Mummy said you are going to die and that I'll have to go and live in London with her."
I looked down at my phone, still in my hand, and had an idea. I used to record my lecture classes and the recording app was still installed. I opened it without telling Cameron what I was doing and set it on the bedside table in front of her so it would catch everything she said. And she said a lot.
When she finished telling me everything I was as close to speechless as I've ever been. No one - not Mrs. Clyde, not Darach - had been exaggerating about Diane. I could see the weight lifting off Cameron's narrow shoulders as she told me everything - her mother had been telling her, apparently for months, that Darach was going to die because he was "bad." I had been added to the list of bad people as soon as Diane found out about my presence at Castle McLanald. Before I did anything else, I had to make sure Cameron understood the truth.
"Do you think your Daddy is bad, Cameron?"
"No."
"Do you think I am bad?
"No. But Mummy said-"
Gently, I cut her off:
"Cameron, your Mummy is not well. She has something wrong with her head and it makes her say terrible things to you - things that aren't true at all. Daddy is fine - he's in Switzerland eating chocolate and missing you! And I am fine - look at me, don't I seem fine to you? No one is going to die, Cameron."
Cameron took a few shaky breaths and started to sob with relief, climbing onto my lap and putting her head against my neck.
"Why didn't you say anything, little one?" I asked, barely keeping the emotion out of my voice, "When something is scaring you you can always tell your Daddy about it - or Mrs. Clyde, or me."
"Mummy said I couldn't tell anyone. Mummy said if I told anyone then I would die."
That was too much. I snatched the phone off the table and rushed downstairs with Cameron in my arms, looking for Mrs. Clyde, who was uncharacteristically nowhere to be found. Neither was Mr. Clyde. Shaking with rage, I dialed Darach's number and got his voicemail.
"Darach, call me. As soon as you can, this is important."
You've got it all recorded. As soon as a judge hears this, Diane's custody will be revoked.
There was nothing else to do except wait for Mrs. Clyde to turn up - I needed her to help me reassure Cameron that everything was fine now. Cameron and I went back to her room so she could get dressed and I could see that she was already feeling a little better.
"Promise me you will never keep a secret for your Mummy again, Cameron. I understand why you did - you didn't want anything bad to happen to your Daddy or me - but promise me you'll tell someone if Mummy ever starts to tell you scary things again."
She wrapped her arms around my neck.
"I promise, Miss Robinson." There was a short pause. "Can I have breakfast now?"
"Yes!" I was so relieved to hear her asking for breakfast. "Yes, let's get Mrs. Clyde to make you some oatmeal. We can even put honey on it if you want."
But when I got down to the kitchen Mrs. Clyde was still absent. I walked back out into the foyer and saw Mr. Clyde coming down the main stairs. He was carrying my bags. A little finger of worry ran up my spine.
"Mr. Clyde - what's going on?" I asked, confused. He wouldn't meet my eyes, he just put my bags down in front of me and retreated, mumbling something I couldn't make out. I didn't have time to follow him and question him further because there was a sudden loud series of knocks on the big wooden doors behind me, making me jump slightly. Since no one else was around, I opened them myself. Two stern-faced police officers stood in front of me.
"Jennifer Robinson?"
Chapter 12
"Yes...?" I replied, still clueless about what was happening but starting to feel strongly that it wasn't good.
"Perhaps you should send the bairn to her room."
There was a seriousness to the officer's tone that made it clear he wasn't making a request. I tried to put Cameron down but she knew very well that something was up and refused to let go of me.
"Cameron," I tried to reason with her, "why don't you wait for me in your room? I'll come get you in a few minutes and we'll find Mrs. Clyde to get you some breakfast."
"I'll take her."
It was Mr. Clyde - he'd come back and he was trying to take Cameron out of my arms. She refused to let go and the foyer was soon filled with the sound of her wailing my name. When Mr. Clyde finally succeeded in peeling her off me I kept the tears suppressed until she was out of sight - whatever was going on, I had the sudden awful feeling that I wasn't going to see her again.
"Jennifer Robinson, we're here to escort you to the train station."
"What exactly is going on here?!" I demanded as the sinking feeling in my belly intensified.
"If you'll just come with us."
The other officer, the one who wasn't doing the talking, stepped towards me and took me by the arm, pulling me outside. The first one picked up my bags.
"What?" I wrenched my arm free of the policeman's grip. "Just tell me what's happening! Don't touch me!"
"You're lucky the Laird isn't pressing charges, young lady. We're taking you to the train station. If you come back, you'll be arrested. Or we can arrest you right now if you want to cause trouble."
Briefly, it crossed my mind that this was a very badly conceived practical joke. I hadn't done anything. The officers didn't look like they were joking, though, not at all. In fact they looked so serious I actually wondered if maybe I had done something.
"Just. OK, I'll go." I said, allowing myself to be walked to the small police car parked halfway up the driveway. "Just tell me what I did. Tell me why you're doing this."
One of the officers actually smirked at my question, as if there was no doubt in his mind.
"Young lady, you know very well what you've done. The Laird took you into his home - he trusted you with his daughter. And you repay him by stealing."
Stealing? It was at that moment that it dawned on me. This had to be Diane's doing. She obviously wasn't happy about my presence at Castle McLanald or in her daughter's life.
"I haven't stolen anything, sir," I said icily as they opened the back door of the car and gestured for me to get inside.
"Of course you haven't. That's why the maids found a number of watches and some jewelry in your room, all packaged up and ready to be sent home, is it? That's why your phone is full of e-mails to your boyfriend telling him exactly what you've stolen so far?"
My boyfriend? Emails on my phone? I didn't have a boyfriend - at least not one back home and, it appeared, not in Scotland either. Robotically, I reached down and took my phone out so I could check it for these "e-mails" the police officer was telling me they found.
"Wait. You - when did you look at my phone?"
The smirking officer reached out and snatched it out of my hand before I could get into my e-mail.
"We'll be needing that. In case you decide to cause more trouble for the Laird and his family."
I was too stunned to think as the police car pulled out into the road and started driving towards the train station. I didn't even cry, I just sat on the strange plastic-covered seat and stared straight ahead. Surely - surely - this was a misunderstanding of some kind.
It apparently wasn't a misunderstanding, though. The police stayed with me on the platform, earning me a few hostile stares from passersby, and they made sure I got onto the train, waiting until it
actually started to move before they left.
The train journey was hours long and my sense of shock soon began to dissipate into painful, searing betrayal. The police mentioned the Laird repeatedly. He had to have known. He had to have known what I was being accused of. Why hadn't he given me a chance to defend myself? Why hadn't he considered the possibility that the one woman he knew was dedicated to poisoning both his life and his daughter's may have had something to do with it? The tears that ran down my cheeks as the train pulled into King's Cross station in London were hot and angry. Darach knew how close I was to Cameron. How could he let Mr. Clyde rip her out of my arms like that without even a good-bye?
Phoneless, I couldn't even send the outraged e-mail that was brewing in my head as I made my way to Heathrow. I was so enraged at that point that even if Darach had appeared before me apologizing it wouldn't have been good enough. It was too late. You don't treat people like that. You especially don't treat people like that if you've spent a series of nights and stolen afternoons making love to them and telling them how beautiful and wonderful they are.
What a coward. To just assume those things about me.
My mind ran a mile a minute to the extent that I didn't sleep at all before I was halfway across the Atlantic. All sorts of ideas to prove my innocence popped up - only to prove my innocence, mind, not to try and get my job back. That was over. Darach could afford a private investigation if the police weren't interested. I knew I'd never even seen any jewelry or pricey watches in Castle McLanald except the vintage Rolex Darach wore - and that was almost certainly on his wrist somewhere in Switzerland. So my fingerprints couldn't possibly be on any of the things I had supposedly 'stolen.' One of my friends at college was studying criminology and she'd talked to me about a class she took on pattern recognition in language - basically studying something someone has written and then being able to tell if they'd written other sentences based on the first sample. The mysterious e-mails I was accused of sending would show I couldn't possibly have written them.