by Blake Pierce
She wondered whether Antoinette felt as if her life was lacking control, and was trying to exert it in her immediate environment. Or maybe, since the dark-haired girl had made it clear she resented the presence of an au pair, she was trying to prove she didn’t need anyone to take care of her.
“My homework is done. I was writing in my personal diary,” Antoinette told her.
“Do you do that every night?”
“I do it when I am angry.” She placed the lid back on her pen.
“I’m sorry about what happened tonight,” Cassie sympathized, feeling as if she were treading on ice that might shatter at any moment.
“Margot hates me and I hate her,” Antoinette said, her voice trembling slightly.
“No, I don’t think that’s true,” Cassie protested, but Antoinette shook her head.
“It is true. I hate her. I wish she was dead. She’s said things like that before. It makes me so angry I could kill her.”
Cassie stared at her in shock.
It wasn’t only Antoinette’s words, but the calm way she spoke them, that chilled her. She had no idea how she should respond. Was it even normal for a twelve-year-old to have these murderous thoughts? Antoinette should surely be helped to manage this anger by somebody better qualified. A counselor, a psychologist, even a parish priest.
Well, in the absence of anyone competent, she guessed she was the only one available.
Cassie sifted through her own memories, trying to remember what she’d said and done at that age. How she’d reacted and what she’d felt when her own situation had spiraled out of control. Had she ever wanted to kill anybody?
She suddenly remembered one of her dad’s girlfriends, Elaine, a blonde with long red fingernails and a high, shrieking laugh. They’d hated each other on sight. During the six months that Elaine had been on the scene, Cassie had loathed her with a vengeance. She couldn’t remember wishing her dead, but she’d definitely wished her gone.
Probably this was the same thing. Antoinette was being more outspoken, that was all.
“What Margot said wasn’t fair in the least,” Cassie agreed, because it hadn’t been. “But people say things in anger they don’t mean.”
Of course, they also came out with the truth when they were angry but she wasn’t going to go down that road.
“Oh, she meant it,” Antoinette assured her. She was fidgeting with the pen, twisting its lid violently from side to side.
“And Papa always takes her side now. He thinks only of her and never of us. It was different when my mother was alive.”
Cassie nodded sympathetically. This, too, was her experience.
“I know,” she said.
“How do you know?” Antoinette looked up at her curiously.
“My mother died when I was young. My father also brought new girlfriends—er, I mean a new fiancée—into the house. It caused a lot of clashes and hostilities. They disliked me, I disliked them. Luckily I had an older sister.”
Hastily Cassie corrected herself again.
“I have an older sister, Jacqui. She stood up to my dad and helped protect me when there were fights.”
Antoinette nodded in agreement.
“You took my side tonight. Nobody has done that before. Thank you for doing that.”
She stared at Cassie, her eyes wide and blue, and Cassie felt a lump in her throat at the unexpected gratitude.
“That’s what I’m here for,” she said.
“I’m sorry I told you to walk through the nettles.” She glanced at the welts on Cassie’s hands, still swollen and inflamed.
“That’s really no problem. I understand it was just a joke.” Tears were flooding her eyes now as sympathy welled inside her. She hadn’t expected Antoinette to let down her guard. She understood exactly how lonely she must feel, and how vulnerable. It was terrible to think Antoinette had suffered previous verbal abuse from Margot, with nobody there to protect her and her father deliberately siding against her.
Well, she had somebody now—Cassie was in her corner and would support her no matter what it took. The day hadn’t been a complete disaster if it meant she’d managed to get closer to this complex and troubled child.
“Try to sleep now. I am sure things will be better in the morning.”
“I hope so. Good night, Cassie.”
Cassie closed the door, sniffed violently, and wiped her nose on her sleeve. Exhaustion and emotion were getting the better of her. She hurried down the corridor, grabbed her pajamas, and headed for the shower.
When she was standing under the steaming jet of water, she finally allowed her tears to flow.
*
Although the hot water had soothed her emotions, Cassie soon realized it had caused her skin to flare up again. The nettle stings started itching unbearably. She scrubbed herself hard with her towel in an effort to scratch the itch, but only succeeded in spreading it.
After climbing into bed, she found she was so uncomfortable she couldn’t sleep. Her face and arms were throbbing and burning. Scratching offered only temporary relief and actually worsened the pain.
After what seemed like hours of unsuccessfully trying to will herself to sleep, Cassie admitted defeat. She needed something to soothe her skin. The cupboard in the shower room had housed only basic essentials, but she’d seen a large cabinet in the bathroom beyond Ella’s bedroom. Perhaps there would be something there that could help.
She walked quietly to the bathroom and opened the wooden cabinet, relieved to see that it was filled with tubes and bottles. There was bound to be something for allergies. She read the labels, struggling with the complicated French, nervous that applying the wrong remedy might make things even worse.
Calamine lotion. She recognized the color and smell even though the label was unfamiliar. This would soothe her skin.
Pouring some into her cupped hand, Cassie slathered it onto the burns. Immediately she felt cool relief. She replaced the bottle and closed the cabinet.
As she turned to leave, she heard a sound and froze.
It was a rough shout, a muffled scream.
It must be Marc. He’d gotten out of bed and was causing trouble with Ella.
She hurried down the corridor but realized after just a few steps that this side of the house was quiet and the children were asleep.
There it was again—a crash and a thud and another scream.
Cassie froze. Was somebody breaking into the house? Her mind raced as she thought of all the treasures it contained. In the States, she would have locked herself in her room and called the police. But there was no cell signal here, so the best she could do would be to alert Pierre. It sounded as if it was coming from that direction anyway.
She would feel braver if she had a weapon. She glanced into her bedroom. Perhaps she should take the steel poker by the fireplace. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
Grasping the poker firmly, Cassie tiptoed down the corridor. She rounded the corner and found herself facing a closed wooden door.
This must be the master suite, and the noise was coming from inside.
Cassie leaned the poker against the wall, so she could grab it quickly if she needed to. Then she bent down and peeked through the keyhole.
The lights were on in the bedroom. Her view was limited, but she could see one person—no, two. There was Pierre, his dark hair gleaming in the light. But what was he doing with his hands? They were wrapped round something—he was gripping and shaking it violently. Another plaintive, choking scream reached her, and she drew in her breath sharply as she realized he was grasping a woman’s neck.
Cassie’s heart pounded as she translated the scene playing out through the tiny hole in the door, where Pierre was murdering Margot.
CHAPTER NINE
Cassie recoiled from the heavy wooden door, adrenaline flooding through her as she replayed the deadly scene in her mind. Heavy hands clamped around a pale neck, those panicked, choking screams. There had been something else as well; a spla
sh of vivid color she couldn’t make sense of.
She needed to call for help, and fast.
Who could she call, though? The housekeeper was the only person she knew, and she had no idea where to find her. In any case, if she wasted time looking for her, Margot would die. It was as simple as that.
Instead, Cassie herself would have to intervene.
If she burst into the bedroom, shouting at the top of her voice, it would cause a distraction that would hopefully allow the blonde woman to break free.
Terror overpowered her at the thought, but she told herself it had to be done. Even if her legs turned to water and her voice was no more than a pathetic squeak, she had to try and be brave.
As she reached for the door handle, she heard another sound that stopped her in her tracks.
It was a deep-voiced groan of pleasure.
Hesitantly, Cassie bent and peered through the keyhole once again.
Moving her head from side to side to make the most of her narrow view, Cassie realized the object she’d seen was a brightly colored scarf. Margot’s wrists were tightly bound, and the scarf was knotted to a brass rail that must be the headboard.
Cassie gasped as she realized what was happening.
This wasn’t murder, but a sexual act—dark, violent, and prolonged. She could see Margot struggling to free herself. This wasn’t just kinky experimentation; it looked downright dangerous. And she wasn’t at all sure that it was consensual. Margot didn’t seem to be a willing partner. Perhaps Pierre was punishing her for her earlier outburst, or using it as an excuse to do what he was doing now.
Cassie told herself firmly that however horrifying the act, it was taking place in private and certainly not her business. If Pierre or Margot found out she’d been watching, she’d be in serious trouble. And if one of the children were to see her peeking through the keyhole, she didn’t want to imagine what the consequences would be.
Cassie stepped back, but in the shock of what she’d seen, she forgot all about the poker she’d placed against the wall. She knocked it with her foot and it clattered loudly down onto the marble tiles.
The groans stopped suddenly. After a heartbeat of silence, Pierre called out, his voice sharp.
“What’s that? Who’s there?”
He’d heard. And the sudden creak of bedsprings and the thud of feet on floorboards told her that he was on his way to see.
Cassie picked up the poker and fled down the corridor, running as fast and silently as she could. She prayed that Pierre might stop to put on a gown or slippers, and that she’d be out of sight by the time he opened the door. Because if he saw her, if he even guessed she’d been there, she had a world of trouble coming her way.
She rounded the corner and skidded on the marble tiles, grabbing desperately at the wall to stop herself from falling. Her finger bent back painfully and she swallowed a cry. From behind her she heard the latch click as the bedroom door swung open. And then she heard the pounding of feet down the corridor. Pierre was pursuing her at speed.
Nightmare scenarios raced through Cassie’s mind as she headed for her bedroom. She closed the door as quietly as she could and placed the poker back in the fireplace, trying to stop her hands from shaking so it wouldn’t rattle against the grate. A moment later she leaped into bed and yanked the covers up to her chin. With her heart banging in her throat, she waited for Pierre to pass by.
Because of course he would pass by, wouldn’t he? There would be no reason for him to knock if he saw her door was closed.
The footsteps stopped outside her door, but Pierre did not knock. Instead, to Cassie’s disbelief, he simply opened it. He snapped on the light and stood in the doorway. His face was flushed, he was barefoot, and he was wearing a burgundy dressing gown.
Cassie’s first immediate and overriding thought was that this was a complete invasion of privacy. No way was it appropriate for an employer to enter an employee’s bedroom alone and after hours without knocking. His presence in her private space was making her feel defensive and vulnerable, triggering old memories that had morphed into nightmares. People in her room. Hiding under the bed. “Hey, little girlie…”
Pierre stared at her and then took a look around the room, his gaze resting on her bath towel hung on the hook near the door, and the pile of clothes she’d left folded on the armchair near the fireplace.
Cassie sat up, straightening her pajama top and instinctively crossing her arms over her chest. She wanted to shout at him to get out, to scream that he had no right to enter her room without permission.
But this was not a good time to discuss boundaries—not when she’d been peeking through his bedroom door at his private activities.
“Did you hear anything, Cassie? There was a noise just now.”
The loud clattering he’d heard was undeniable evidence that someone had been up and about. It was her job to respond to noises and disturbances at night, so there was no way she could claim she hadn’t heard it. She had to offer Pierre a coherent explanation for what had happened.
She saw he was looking at her curiously and suddenly remembered the fresh smears of lotion on her face and arms. And with that, the answer came to her. She breathed deeply, trying to speak as calmly as possible and not to sound breathless.
“That was me. I was in the bathroom down the corridor, getting some lotion for my skin. It was itching so much I couldn’t sleep. I knocked over a glass bottle while I was putting the lotion away. It didn’t break but it made a terrible noise. Sorry it woke you.”
Pierre frowned, then nodded as if that made sense to him.
“Your skin, it is all right now?”
“I think it will be fine. The lotion has stopped the itching. Would you like me to check on the children, in case I disturbed them, too?”
Pierre paused and listened.
“Not necessary. All seems to be quiet. Better to let them be, if they are asleep.”
She thought he was going to leave, but he didn’t. Instead he walked over to the pile of clothes on the desk, bent down, and retrieved a folded item from the floor.
Cassie’s eyes widened in alarm as she saw it was her black bra. She’d left it on top of the pile but must have been knocked it off earlier—probably when she’d rushed past to replace the poker.
Pierre shook it out before placing it carefully on top of the pile.
“You must never fold bras,” he reprimanded her. “They should be stored open, stacked together, preferably in a drawer. It is better for them.”
He looked down at her clothes and nodded in satisfaction while Cassie shrank against the wall, edging the bedcovers higher up her body. She was sure her panties had been under the bra, and that meant he must have seen them, too. She was too shocked by his behavior to think of any response, but Pierre didn’t seem to expect one.
“Good night.”
He walked back to her door, switched off the light, and left, closing the door behind him.
Cassie let out a long, deep breath. She uncrossed her arms, noticing her hands were still trembling.
He’d had no right to come in here without knocking. However innocent his motives might have been, it was a complete violation—to open her door, turn on the light, stroll across the floor to examine her underwear and advise her on how to store it. She wished she’d gotten her thoughts in order in time to tell him how out of line his behavior was.
She was starting to realize that Pierre didn’t care about boundaries. His actions had revealed a darker side to him—a side that craved and took, no matter the consequences.
There was no key in her bedroom door, and although Marnie might be able to find a key if she asked, she couldn’t lock herself in without inviting suspicion and criticism from her employers.
She’d need to find another way of rigging up an alarm. Perhaps she could run a string from the door handle to the chair, so that it would overturn if the door opened. She could say she’d done it so she would wake immediately if the children entered.
>
She urgently needed a contingency plan in place—because what would she do if Pierre decided to come into her bedroom while she was asleep?
CHAPTER TEN
Cassie woke before her alarm went off. She was sweating, curled in a ball and huddled under the duvet. She guessed she’d roused herself from a nightmare. Looking up, she saw the bedroom door was closed. She remembered it being wide open, but that must have been part of her dream. Pierre had definitely closed it when he left.
Thinking of Pierre brought last night’s violent scenario rushing back to her. The way Margot had been trying to scream. And the thudding—what had that been? Had she been struggling to get free from her ties?
Preoccupied with Margot’s aggression and the children’s willful behavior, she hadn’t thought much about Pierre. From his behavior, she’d guessed him to be moody, controlling, somewhat of a perfectionist. She’d never dreamed that he had a darker side that drove him to act out on dangerous sexual desires.
Cassie suddenly wondered if any of the children had spied on him the same way she had. That thought was too disturbing for her to pursue so she pushed it away.
It was five-thirty a.m. Too early to wake the children, but at least she could take some time and look presentable herself.
Cassie showered, washed her hair, and used some of the serum she’d brought to dry her hair smooth and shiny. She applied light makeup—a touch of foundation to brighten the tired pallor of her skin, and pink lipstick. She dressed in jeans, boots, and a turquoise top. Finally she was achieving the neat and professional look she’d hoped for on her first day.
Remembering that boundaries were important to Antoinette—and feeling renewed empathy with her in this regard—she knocked on her door and waited for an answer. She had to knock three times before finally receiving a sullen, “Yes?” in response.
