As we head for the stairs, I notice that David is off in a corner of the living room talking with a woman who looks official, but she isn’t wearing a police uniform. She might be a detective.
He eyes me with concern as I pass by. I respond with a dutifulnod that conveys I have everything well under control. I escort the children upstairs, and suggest they start on the blanket fort while I get the brownies.
Downstairs I go. The scene before me is emotionally charged, which matches my inner state. David talks in a low voice to the detective, who scribbles in her little spiral notebook.
It’s one thing to obsessively listen to murder shows and something else entirely to be in the midst of one. Not that I think Fiona is dead. Missing is different—unless you are Anna Olsen or Susie Welch, with prolonged absences that leave no other possible explanation.
The lake takes them…
I fear the detective will want to speak with anyone who has information about Fiona’s whereabouts. Not only have I been in Fiona’s presence, I’m technically living under the same roof. But I don’t know anything. I have nothing to offer. So why is my heart pounding like a bass drum?
The detective peers at me over her shoulder. I find her assessing stare unnerving, as though she can read my thoughts with a glance. She is rugged and durable, with a head like a block of granite and eyes that wouldn’t smile even if you held a puppy in front of them. She’s in her early thirties and has short hair that’s styled in a way that suggests she doesn’t care much about hair.
She’s dressed in a tailored dark pantsuit with subtle pinstripes that enhance her air of authority. Beneath her blazer, she wears a crisp white button-up shirt open enough to reveal a small sapphire pendant attached to a discreet silver necklace. Her black leather ankle boots are speckled with mud that she may have acquired while searching for Fiona.
David’s nervous energy is palpable. His gaze lands everywhere except on the detective, who is still focused on me.
“Hey there, I’m Detective Ruth Baker. Are you the nanny?”
Oh, shit.Now I know how a cornered fox feels. Supposing Detective Baker is even remotely good at her job, she may figure out I fabricated my way into my current position.She who does the lies alsodoes the crimes.I’m only nineteen, but I think I’ve just had my first hot flash. “Yes, I’m the nanny,” I squeak.
Even my job title makes me sound guilty of something.
“Can you stick around? I’d like to talk with you after I finish here.” Baker sends a stony stare, and I know an order when I hear one. The good news is, I don’t have to strain to eavesdrop on David’s interview.
“How long have you and Fiona been together?” the detective asks. Her voice matches her appearance—gravelly and joyless, different from how she spoke to me, a lot less friendly. Is David already under suspicion?
“About three months now,” he says. “We met at a coffee shop near my home in Manhattan. She forgot her wallet, so I offered to pick up the tab.”
“How chivalrous,” mumbles Baker, staring at her notepad. “And Fiona—what’s her last name?”
The detective has pen to paper, ready to jot down the answer, but interestingly enough, David seems to have drawn a blank. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I don’t know Fiona’s last name, either, but I’m not the one sleeping with her. The pause lasts long enough for us all to squirm. Finally, it clicks for him.
“Maxwell,” he spits out. “Fiona Maxwell. Sorry, I’m just a bit shaken by all this.”
“I bet,” says Baker, her pen scratching something on her notepad that’s probably not in David’s favor.
“Do you have a picture of her?” Baker asks.
David takes out his phone, and the detective gives his screen a cursory look.
“Pretty,” she notes.
“Yeah, she is,” David agrees.
“Andyoung,” Baker adds with emphasis.
David’s posture stiffens. He’s the talent scout who doesn’t like to be on the receiving end of scrutiny, especially from a woman.
“She’s in her thirties.” He sounds defensive. “She’s not a kid.”
Detective Baker utters an ambiguous “uh-huh” while giving thehome interior the once-over. “Nice place you have. Appearances are important to you?”
David’s eyes narrow. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at, Detective, but I’d certainly like Fiona toappearback here,” he answers testily.
I have a feeling he doesn’t realize who he’s up against. Baker is shrewd. She knows showy people like David Dunne wouldn’t hesitate for one second to tell a lie to safeguard their veneer of perfection.
“So, you two are close?” Baker asks.
