by Emmy Ellis
The way he’d sent Aaron away, too.
But I didn’t care for Aaron, my first lover. He’d never fought my corner, or fought for our child. He’d proclaimed to be a man, made me think he was—but he wasn’t.
His child did have his hairline, and her bottom lip was full with the same deep dip above her chin, which had my dimple set in the centre. But I’d known she had that dimple when I’d held her, that one time in Linz. I had studied it, smiling. She’d been rosy-cheeked, a little bashed from delivery, her hair sparse and her eyes tight shut, but that dimple had been there, right from the beginning.
A bang from downstairs dragged my thoughts from the sterile hospital room that held so much wonder and pain.
Sutton was back.
Quickly, shoving the documents and pictures into the envelope, all except the one of Guilia holding her doll, I glanced at the bedroom door.
Sutton’s voice drifted up. His words were clipped, as were his footsteps on the tiled foyer floor. They were getting louder
Shit, he’s coming this way.
I rammed the envelope into the drawer, dropped Dan Brown’s novel on top of it, and shut it quietly. Standing, I swiped at the duvet, removing the wrinkles I’d put there. With trembling fingers, I placed the framed picture back then picked up the one remaining photograph.
Fuck.
Dashing to the bathroom, I pulled the door to and gathered my clothes.
“Yes, I’m in the master bedroom. Hang on. I’ll get it now,” he said.
I straightened and held my breath. Who was he talking to? My father on the phone? Or had another man walked out of the damn bushes and Sutton had brought him inside?
If it was my father, I should grab the phone, yell at him, tell him what a monster he was for stealing my baby, for keeping her to himself all these years and not sharing any of her life with me.
But I couldn’t. Something held me back. It was too raw, this new knowledge. The image of Guilia was sacred somehow, as was my discovery of her. I wanted to hold her close, keep my thoughts private, lick my wounds but at the same time wonder at how proud I was of her.
“Yep, it’s here. I’ve got it,” he said.
I sneaked to the door, peered through the crack, being sure to keep my photograph buried in my pile of clothes.
Sutton stood by the dresser. He had the framed picture in his hand and was opening the drawer.
“Brown envelope,” he said. “Guilia on the front.”
He listened to a reply.
“Okay, got it. I’ll put it in the safe.” He glanced my way.
I stepped back from the door, my heart pounding. Sutton had clearly been instructed to hide Guilia away from my prying eyes. Well, it was too late. She’d been there waiting for me, her ethereal presence a magnet it seemed for me, her birth mother.
“Yes, sir, I’ll be in touch.”
Silence.
“Claudine, are you in there?”
I swallowed, my mouth dry. “Yes.”
“What are you doing?”
“What do you think I’m doing?” I unhooked the towel from my chest and let it pool on the floor. With my clothes and precious hidden picture in one hand, I stepped from the bathroom, unashamed of my nakedness.
He had one arm behind his back, holding the evidence he was removing. His eyes widened, and briefly his gaze dipped to the juncture of my thighs.
“I needed a shower,” I said. “And now I need a cup of tea. Not American shit, a decent Darjeeling or an Earl Grey. Do you think Father Dearest will have some of that secreted away in his house the way he has so many other things hidden?” I placed my free hand on my hip.
“I’ll er…”
For a moment, he reminded me of the old Sutton, not the new one who killed and followed my father’s grim instructions. For a second, the Sutton who’d sat at the pool bar was in the room.
“Well?” I said then tutted.
“I’m sure he has.” He kept his attention firmly on my face. “I’ll go and put the kettle on.”
Chapter Twelve
Yes, of course he’d go and put the kettle on. Any excuse to leave me so he could lock the evidence of my child away in the safe. He’d sidled to the door, and I’d wanted to say that I knew he had an envelope behind his back, but I’d rather enjoyed his discomfort. Especially as he’d backed out through the doorway, trying to make that style of walking appear normal.
“Are you coming down or not?” he called.
His voice sounded far away, and I supposed it was, given the size of the house. I didn’t bother to answer. I tugged open a door to my left. It led into a large walk-in wardrobe. Hanging on the first rail I came to was a black velvet robe with RMF embroidered on the chest. So Father kept clothes here. Another bit of information. As I pulled it on and rolled back the sleeves, I glanced around, wondering if there was any evidence of a female.
Nothing.
So no Miriam bloody Pennington visits then.
I fastened the belt at my waist, feeling strange to be comforted by wearing something of my father’s when I was so damn angry with him.
I floated my way down the stairs in the same way I’d floated up earlier, just in case Sutton was watching. I wasn’t going to let him know I’d seen the contents of that envelope. And he was most definitely not going to know I was upset, dying a little inside. I’d seen the evidence with my own eyes; evidence that I was missing her childhood.
I found him in the kitchen. He’d set the tea things on the table, very British, what with the teapot, the cups and saucers. Perhaps he wanted some normality—or as close to it as he could get, anyway. The life of a bodyguard-cum-killer couldn’t be particularly pleasant—bloody awful if that was the only choice he thought he had.
“How delightful,” I said, tone breezy. “I’m surprised the milk is fresh.”
It was my way of finding out information, although I doubted he’d tell me anything of significance.
“I took some milk from the boat. Marion didn’t mind,” he said and took a seat at the table.
“I’m sure she didn’t.”
Stealing from the dead. A new low.
I joined him, staring through the large window at the grounds to the back of the property. The sunshine was lovely out there. Sutton must have opened the shutters because they had been closed when I’d done my tour. “Maybe we should take our tea into the garden.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t.”
He scowled, so I scowled back.
“Okay, maybe we shouldn’t then.” I smiled. “Will you pour, or shall I?” I stared at him, waiting for his answer.
He couldn’t make eye contact with me. Was it because he’d possibly nosed in that envelope before stashing it away and had seen my name as mother on the birth certificate? If so, I hoped he felt guilty and knew I’d been forced to give her up.
Why did him knowing that seem important?
Because I don’t like the idea of people thinking I didn’t want her.
“I’ll do it,” he said.
Keeping himself busy while he composed his thoughts? I waited for him to fill my cup, then I added milk. It tasted divine, and I closed my eyes, transported back to England for a second or two.
“I’ve been told I brew good tea,” he said.
“You do.” I opened my eyes again, annoyed to find myself still in the Clearwater house and not Juniper Hall.
Was our conversation going to turn into polite drivel now?
“The boat left while you were in the shower.” He finally met my eyes.
“Lovely thing for the neighbours to spot,” I sniped. “Did you think about that?”
He sipped. Shrugged. “No need to as there aren’t any neighbours.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. I saw the houses either side of this one.”
“Houses, yes. People, no.”
I caught my frown before it had time to properly form. “I see.” Although I didn’t. Not really. Empty homes waiting to be sold? Holiday homes only used
every so often?
“They’re your father’s.” He smiled, a little sadly, as though he realised I didn’t know much about a good chunk of my life. Or Father’s at any rate.
“Oh. Quite the property owner, isn’t he?” I said.
“He is.”
I finished my tea without asking any more questions. My body grew weary, as did my mind, but I had to keep alert. I was in danger here, I sensed that keenly, yet I had no choice but to do as Sutton had said and stay in this house until he felt it was okay to move on.
There’s always a choice.
I couldn’t remember if I’d said that to him or if I’d imagined it, and whether he’d answered that there wasn’t always a choice. Yes, I could leave, but if I did, I’d be putting myself into the line of sight of whoever was after me.
I had to know some of the truth.
“Look,” I said. “I know you can’t tell me much, because Father will be upset with you and blah blah blah, but surely you can answer this: Why am I being followed?” I paused when he sighed. “All right, let me put it another way. I have come to the conclusion that my father is, shall we say, not who I thought he was. He possibly does things I wouldn’t want to know about. But what has that got to do with me? Why am I being targeted and not him?”
He rested his palms flat on the table, either side of his cup and saucer. Pushed himself standing then walked over to the window, where he gazed out, shoulders straight and spine rigid. This man had a burden he didn’t want to have, and I felt sorry for him in a way, despite what he did for a living. Both of us were trapped here when we didn’t want to be. Both of our lives were being disrupted by outside forces. At least we had something in common.
“They want him to make certain deals,” he said. “And please don’t ask me who ‘they’ are. And, quite simply, your father won’t deliver.”
“Marvellous.” My smile hurt my face. “So he’s happy for ‘them’ to come after me. Is that right? Rather than Father doing what they want so I’m protected that way, he’d rather try to protect me himself, swishing me to this place so that he still doesn’t have to do what they want. Typical of him. Doing it his way or not at all.”
Sutton snorted. I could have taken it as derision, but I went with the sound being made in support of me. I had to have someone I could believe in.
I continued with, “This thing he does, what he’s involved in… It’s big, isn’t it?”
Sutton nodded.
“Right. Bigger than I can imagine?” I tilted my head, hoping he’d answer with words.
He only nodded again. Blew air out through pursed lips. Shook his head. Then, “I will keep you safe until your father sorts things out with them. Which I’m sure he will.” He mumbled something and balled his hands into fists. “Oh, for fuck’s sake…this was supposed to have been stopped for this week. Stay there, Claudine.”
He left the room, strutting off towards the foyer. I turned around to watch what he was doing. He fumbled inside a cupboard that stood in one corner and produced a rifle. I widened my eyes. What the bloody hell was going on now? A flicker of movement from the kitchen window caught my eye, and I looked through it, annoyed that my focus was off of Sutton. A man stared through the glass—Mexican or Greek, maybe?—his own eyes wide and his mouth hanging open. In true ribald, Claudine fashion, I raised my teacup at him, pissed off that he was there, my chat with Sutton cut short. I was also apprehensive, but considering how quickly the other visitor had been packed off earlier, I had no doubt that Sutton, armed with the rifle, could make this one bugger off even faster.
The front door slammed, locked, and once again I was alone, secure inside.
The man stepped backwards. And there was Sutton—or the business end of the rifle anyway, jammed to the man’s temple. The man’s hand disappeared from view, and he stared at me with even wider eyes. He nodded—Sutton must have said something—then scarpered off, through the garden and disappearing into a stand of palms at the far end.
Sutton materialised at the window then, watching the place where the man had vanished. The rifle was propped on his shoulder, one eye closed as he took aim. His face was hard, the skin tight with anger, and his mouth was just as tight. What was going through that mind of his?
I closed my eyes for a second, and when I opened them again, he was gone. Then came the click of the lock, the front door slamming, locking again, and his footsteps.
He came into the room, sat at the table, propping the rifle beside him, and stared out of the window. I sat silent, staring, too, and after ten minutes had gone by with no one appearing in the garden, he got up. Opened the window. Pulled the shutters closed. Secured them.
“I should have remembered,” he muttered.
“Remembered what?” I got up to boil the kettle again. Fresh tea was in order, more to give me something to do than anything.
“When the shutters are open…”
“When the shutters are open, people visit?” I asked, cleaning out the teapot.
He nodded.
“For…?” I didn’t expect an answer.
I didn’t get one.
“You’d better go and close the shutters in the living room then, and the master bedroom,” I said. “Don’t forget, I opened them earlier.”
“Fuck.” He went in a flurry of angst, hand up to his brow, his cheeks reddening.
The poor man would have a heart attack one of these days.
While he was gone, I congratulated myself on finding out another little tidbit. This house was used when Father wasn’t here. People came to possibly collect something. What, I didn’t want to contemplate too much, but one day I’d have to.
Yes, one day, if I wanted to bring that deceitful man down.
Chapter Thirteen
Carrying both cups of tea, I headed into the living room. Despite it only being noon, it was dusk in there now that the shutters were closed. Depressing really, when the outside weather was so glorious.
What kind of crazy signalling system did they have going on where the place had to become all doom and gloom if people using the house didn’t want to be disturbed? Wouldn’t it be better to simply fly a flag like a pirate ship? Or allow black smoke to pour from the chimney the way the cardinals did when choosing a new pontiff?
I set the tea down and listened to Sutton’s footsteps as he moved about the house, checking shutters.
Sitting on the mantel of a great fireplace that held dried flowers were several candles and a lighter. I guessed the occupants of this house, the ones who looked after it, had become accustomed to their murky existence. I lit the tapers, and the small flames quivered to life sending golden shadows over the pristine room.
I sat, sighed, reached for my tea, and blew the surface. The tiny ripple spread out, fanning over the liquid. How simple life must be if all one had to do was ripple. I’d rippled once, right up until I’d met Sutton. My hurts had been buried deep, and I thought I’d been successful in adulting, but all those scars had turned back into scabs, and I wanted to pick at them to see what still remained beneath.
Masochist.
I sipped. I’d swap the damp tidal wave my life had become for a ripple in a heartbeat. Father owned properties either side of this one to eliminate the issue of neighbours? Shutters open meant open for business? What business? And who the hell had collected the boat with Sutton’s murder victims on it?
Once again the Albino’s words came back to me.
‘How do you know who to trust?’
Sutton. I trusted him. I’d made that decision on the boat when I hadn’t made a run for it in the port in St Lucia. I’d had to pick someone to trust, and he’d seemed like the best option.
Plus, it all added up—his links to my father, this place, so familiar and containing Rupert Montague-Fostrop’s things. How Sutton had spoken to him on the phone. Guilia.
Unless it was some elaborate setup?
I looked around the room and drew my legs up beneath myself.
Maybe it
was all designed to trick me, make me trust Sutton.
But why?
If he were out to get me, he would have by now.
If they were actually holding me to ransom without me knowing, why bother? Why bother with the charade? Why not tie me up, gag me, blindfold me, and let me sit in a damp cellar somewhere until Father paid up?
No. Sutton was my man. The one keeping me safe while Father got his act together and cleaned up whatever goddamn mess he’d created.
I sank back into the large cushions, suddenly weary. My life was a jigsaw with missing pieces, and for now I had no hope of completing the puzzle.
A visual of Guilia came to me. Forever, it seemed, I’d had no image of her. Nothing to go on. But now I knew what she looked like and could imagine her here, playing with her Christmas doll on the sofa opposite. Chattering. Father here, too, smiling, a doting grandfather. Maybe he’d take photographs of her, of us together, frame them and have them on show back in England.
Does she even speak English?
“Ah, there’s my tea.” Sutton stalked into the room, shifting the air, the candles fluttering. He still had the rifle slung over his shoulder by a strap.
I held in a sharp retort, irritated that he’d disturbed my daydream.
He sat in the spot I’d just imagined Guilia playing. By doing that he’d erased her, and I wanted to scream at him to get up, get out, so my little girl could come back. I’d been through this once already—the torment, the mourning, the absolute soul-destroying pain. Those had been my scars that were now scabs again. I’d have to live through it all once more—but this time I was determined that when I found her, I would have trouble letting her go again.
When I found her.
As if that’s ever going to happen.
I huffed and took another sip of tea. “It’s miserable in here. Dark.”
“How it has to be if we’re to keep ourselves private.”
“Private? You mean holed up like criminals.” I paused. “Oh, wait, you are a criminal.”
He frowned at me over the rim of his teacup.
“I’m pretty sure murder is the most serious crime of all.” I was goading him. Couldn’t help myself. “Death sentence in this state, I should imagine. You’re not in good old Blighty anymore, you know.”