by Shade, S. M.
A wide smile stretches across her cheeks. “We don’t get many guests anymore since the big hotels opened near the highway. My husband and I are glad to have you here.” Her kind eyes meet mine. “I just want to assure you of your privacy. I understand you’ve had a hard time and probably want to get as far away from the madness as possible. No one here will speak of your whereabouts.”
A lump forms in my throat. Of course, she knows who I am. My picture has been all over the news. I’m the infamous nanny. Depending on what station you watch, I’m the kidnapping nanny, or the nanny who let a rock star’s baby get abducted while she was trying to seduce him.
Either way, I’m a social pariah.
Her kindness is almost too much to handle on top of my roiling emotions. All I can manage to squeak out is a “thank you.”
“You look exhausted, dear. Have you eaten? I can make you a snack.”
“I ate on the way. I’m just going to go to sleep. Thank you so much.”
After she leaves, pulling the door closed behind her, I only want to fall into bed for about twelve hours, but I’m in desperate need of a shower. Maybe my brain has had all it can take because I feel strangely blank as I shower, then climb into bed.
Sleep. I just need to sleep. I need the strength to face what’s coming. Because there’s no doubt in my mind, it’s only going to get worse.
* * *
Despite the exhaustion, I still don’t manage to sleep late. Months of early mornings with Caden have my circadian rhythm firmly set. The moment before I’m fully conscious is a luxury I’m probably going to learn to appreciate more and more because it’s the best moment of my day. For those few seconds, I don’t remember.
For those few seconds, Caden is just a room away and my life hasn’t completely fallen into ruin. My eyes tear up at the sight of the blue flowered wallpaper that greets me when I open my eyes.
This isn’t where I’m supposed to be. This isn’t home. It seems like all I’ve done for days is cry and I know I have to get a grip on myself. I have to keep it together and figure out what to do, no matter how much I want to curl into a ball and block it all out.
Ten minutes, I tell myself. You can lie here for ten minutes, wallow in self-pity and cry, then you have to get up. There’s still a world to face, even if it despises me.
I let the thoughts I’ve tried to fight pull me down. Caden reaching for me, smiling, cuddling in my arms. Taking his first steps from me to Axton. Axton’s genuine smile when he reached him, the way he threw his head back, laughing. The three of us so happy in that moment. Laughing and joking with Dani, staying up late, drinking wine and talking about everything and nothing. Like sisters. The way Axton looked at me when he took me to his bed. His gaze so intense as he touched me, set me on fire, and held me all night. His voice in my ear telling me he finds joy in me.
All of it overwhelms me and I sob into the soft pillow. It was like I had a family. Now, it’s all gone, and I have no one to blame but myself.
Ten minutes is what I allow myself before I slide out of bed, get cleaned up, and step outside of my room.
Dodie is in the sitting room, and she smiles up at me, ignoring my red, puffy eyes that I know speak volumes. “Good afternoon. I hope you slept well after your late night.”
“I did, thank you. It’s a very comfortable bed.”
“Breakfast is on the table if you’d like something to eat.”
“No thank you. I’m not hungry. I think I’ll take a little walk.”
She smiles up at me. “I have a pot of vegetable soup cooking for lunch that will be ready at twelve.”
“That sounds great.”
Dodie is very kind, but I can’t stand to be around anyone at the moment. There’s this desperate need to get away beating in my head, and I know it has nothing to do with her or where I am geographically. I’m trying to run from something I can’t escape; how I feel, and the uncertainty of my future.
My hands rest in the pockets of my hoodie as I step off the porch and walk down to the road. It’s narrow, but paved, and since it’s a few miles from the town, there’s no traffic. The seclusion is why I thought of this place, and because of what lies at the end of the gravel drive I turn onto about a quarter mile down the road.
The small cemetery is surrounded by green. Rows of bushes and brush surround it, parting only for the stone gateway that allows entrance. It’s a bit overgrown, but someone must care for the place since it’s not been completely reclaimed by nature.
The older graves are in the front, their crumbling, mostly illegible stones dark against the ground. The contrast is striking when I walk the path farther back toward the grave I’m looking for. This is the newer section, where fresh flowers still decorate a few plots, and the headstones are bright and legible.
I’ve only been here once but I have no problem finding her grave. My fingers trace over the words carved into the simple stone. “Hey, Mom.”
It’s all I can think of to say. When she died, I was so angry. So furious that she would leave me when she knew I had no one else. The week following her death was one of the hardest in my life. She had no life insurance or last will. I was a college student squeaking by on tutoring and student loan money. If it hadn’t been for a kind man at her work donating this plot, she would’ve been cremated and disposed of by the state.
My anger has faded, but I’ve never had any urge to come here. I know she’s not here. She’s not anywhere.
When I needed a place to escape, I remembered the little B&B I saw after the funeral. Maybe it popped into my head because it was another time when I wanted to get away.
Or maybe I knew sitting here talking to a stone that bears the name of the only person to ever give a shit about me was the only real connection I could make. Pathetic, right?
It doesn’t matter. Sitting in the grass, I pull the weeds around the stone and proceed to catch her up on my life and its disastrous turn.
There’s something strangely comforting about talking to something that can’t return the effort. Maybe it’s because I can get everything out without any interruption or arguments. There are no words of either judgment or sympathy tossed back at me. Or maybe it’s comforting because I can’t say the wrong thing, and then have it used against me. Every word I’ve spoken over the last few days has been careful and measured. The investigators could take the smallest thing and leap on it, firing questions so fast that by the end of the conversation, I’m not even sure what I meant. It’s terrifying.
Hours pass as I sit in the grass, leaning against my mother’s gravestone. When I run out of words, I just soak in the quiet and watch the sky. Puffs of white chase each other across pale blue. The sun dapples the trees, making shadows dance across the ground when the wind blows the branches.
It’s peaceful. I can almost forget the turmoil and grief I’m mired in, at least for a few moments.
The sound of a person clearing their throat from behind me sends a sharp jolt through me, and I leap to my feet. A young guy with blonde hair and amused blue eyes stares at me. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“I just…didn’t know anyone was here,” I reply, glancing around. It occurs to me that I’m alone out here and this guy could be some psycho grave robber or worse…another reporter.
“Are you Naomi?” he asks. Fuck, he is one of the vultures. Without answering, I start back down the path to the front of the cemetery. “Hey, wait…shit, that was stupid of me. You probably think I’m a stalker or something. I’m Colton. My parents own the bed and breakfast. They told me they had a guest named Naomi, and since I rarely see anyone I don’t recognize here, I assumed it was you. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Still a bit wary, I keep my distance. “What are you doing out here?”
“The town just hired me to clean the place up. Cut down the weeds, trim the trees…” He rolls his hand in the air. “I came out to see what shape it was in before I get started tomorrow.”
The day isn’t
even half over and I already feel worn out. “Okay, well, it was nice to meet you.”
I’m relieved when he doesn’t call out to me again or try to follow when I walk away.
When I mention him to Dodie during dinner, she explains that he’s her son who occasionally helps out on the weekends. He recently lost his factory job, one of the few in town, and is working odd jobs in the meantime.
After eating, I retreat to my room for a nap.
Over the next week, that’s pretty much my routine. Up early, walk to the cemetery. Back for lunch and a nap. Then after dinner, I either sit in the pretty gated garden behind the B&B or go back to wandering through the cemetery, looking at the old gravestones and wondering what stories they hold.
I’m not used to being so idle, and it just makes it that much harder to distract myself from the empty space residing in my chest.
My sleep is fitful and plagued with dreams where Axton screams at me, or I search for Caden. I often wake thinking I heard him cry for me through the monitor. Those dreams aren’t as bad as the ones that just take me back to being a part of their lives, only to leave me hollow when I realize all over again that I’m alone.
So many times, I’ve held my phone in my palm, dying to text Dani. Just to ask about Caden. All I know is that he was rescued unhurt. But I’m desperate to know how he’s doing. Has he been affected by the trauma of it? Does he miss me? It tears me apart to think he may be feeling the same way I do.
Other than Paige, the only calls I get are from my lawyer. Today, he calls bearing what we hope is good news; Beverly McFarland is awake and talking. Franklin Koll, the man responsible for killing Jake and helping to kidnap Caden, lawyered up instantly and hasn’t said one word. I know the feds think I planned this with them, and so much of my hope relies on Beverly’s reply when they ask her about me.
I’ve never met that bitch in my life. Her answer should be the same, but I’ve learned not to count on anything. When I get off the phone with the lawyer, I stare at it for a long moment before succumbing, and texting Dani.
Me: I’m sorry. I know you don’t want to hear from me. Please just tell me how Caden is doing.
It’s stupid. I know it is. My lawyer has warned me that any contact with them can be used against me, but I have to know he’s okay.
Long minutes pass and turn into an hour, then two hours. I’m sure she won’t reply at all when my phone buzzes.
Dani: He’s fine. He’s safe.
I want to reply. To ask about her and Axton, but I don’t press my luck. Patience has never been one of my strengths, but for now, I have to wait. Maybe once they find out I had nothing to do with his abduction, I’ll be able to apologize and explain. Maybe I’ll have a chance to see him again.
It’s all I have to hold onto.
* * *
My head can’t get any lower as I’m escorted into the police precinct again, this time by my lawyer, and not against my will. The lawyer may have advised me against doing this, but I want to give them whatever they need to clear my name.
Today, they want a handwriting sample.
My heart races when I’m led to the same little room where I was questioned before. The gray walls seemed to be soaked in my fear from the last time I was here, radiating it back at me. My lawyer sits to my right, and an FBI agent and another man sit across from me.
No questions are asked this time. The lawyer has made it clear I’m only here to cooperate by giving a sample of my handwriting, although I’m not sure how that will help. Was there a ransom note found that I didn’t hear about?
It isn’t until the agent starts to read the words he wants me to write, that it clicks into place.
“You stupid bitch. Do you think you’re better for him than me? Do you think he actually loves you? He’ll never love you like he does me. Stay the fuck away from him.”
Halfway through the second sentence, I pause, my head jerking up. “The threat letters that were sent to me? You think Beverly or Franklin sent them?”
The agent’s face stays hard and impassive. Instead of answering, he just repeats himself then waits for me to write it down. After I’ve done so, he pulls the paper away from me and sneers. “To answer your question, Ms. Wells, no. I’m confident this will show you wrote the letters to yourself and that will be plenty to show premeditation and have you included in the charge of murder for Jacob Hathlon.”
My lawyer holds up his hand when I start to argue and gets to his feet. “My client has cooperated and we’re leaving.”
He gives me a ride out of the area where I’m meeting a taxi to take me back to the B&B. “When the handwriting doesn’t match, will that be enough to clear me?”
“If it doesn’t match you, but matches either of the other suspects, that would be enough to create reasonable doubt with a jury. They won’t want to pursue charges when they know they can’t get a guilty verdict.”
Sighing, I stare out the window. “Won’t they just claim I had them write it? The way they say I had them do everything else?”
His lip tilts up as he gives me a sideways glance. “You haven’t been watching the news.”
“There’s only so many times I can watch myself be called a kidnapping psychopath.”
“Beverly was questioned while she was still in the hospital and she had to be kept there a few days. Being handcuffed to a bed didn’t prevent her from getting a phone and broadcasting a video live to social media.”
“A video of what?”
“A rant aimed at you. Axton and Dani as well, but mostly you. She made it very clear that she hated you and stated over and over that Caden belongs with her and not, and I quote, ‘that uppity cunt that ain’t never been no family to him or his mama. We never met her before and she ain’t got no right to come around after Deidre’s death to claim my grandson.’”
Rubbing my forehead, I try to work out what it all means.
My lawyer’s voice is reassuring. “Naomi, she admitted publicly she doesn’t know you and that she took him to get him back from you. It’s going to be hard to name you as a coconspirator with that, proof she or her accomplice wrote the threat letters, and no physical evidence against you. I don’t want to get your hopes up because anything can happen. But if things go our way, this could be over very soon.”
Chapter Three
Axton
A shrill cry from the next room sends guilt flooding through me. I don’t know if he’s afraid, hurt, or angry, but in the week since he was rescued, Caden has thrown tantrum after tantrum. I don’t know what emotions a one year old is capable of, or how the trauma of those horrific two days may have affected him.
The doctors say to be patient and to keep things as routine as normal. To help him feel safe. We’ve isolated ourselves here and though word hasn’t gotten out where we’re staying, I have security patrolling the grounds twenty-four seven. The only people allowed near are the band and Milo.
Tears stand in Dani’s eyes when I step into the kitchen and see her wipe off Caden’s face, then lift him out of the highchair. She’s splattered with whatever she was trying to feed him. “He still won’t eat much,” she says with a sniff.
Screaming to bring down the house, he climbs to his feet and toddles over to me, grabbing onto my leg. When I lift him into my arms, he struggles and wails louder. There’s no consoling him. He’s not screaming to get what he wants. I don’t think he knows what he wants any more than we know how to give it to him.
I do the only thing I know to do that sometimes helps. “Okay, Hatch. Let’s go have a bath.”
The house we’re temporarily residing in doesn’t have a pool—it’s past the time of year we could swim anyway—but it does have a large hot tub in the rec room. I’ve set the temperature low, just warm enough to be comfortable and safe for him. While he kicks and slaps at me, I take off his clothes and diaper, then change into a pair of shorts.
I put one of the silly cartoons he likes on the large TV that hangs on the wall across from the tub,
then step into the tub with him. When the warm water envelopes him to his waist, his cries fade and he slaps his palms against the water.
I pull a few of his toys in from the edge and he reaches for the little cup. He picks it up, pours out the water, then dunks it again. It’s one of his favorite things to do, and he does it over and over.
My mind flashes back to a sunny day in the park with Naomi, watching him do the same with a cup of sand. Anger and a dull sadness wrap around me. Fucking bitch.
Once he’s calmed down, his eyes start to droop, and he rubs at them. I’ve learned pretty quickly not to use the word nap unless I want another scream fest. Instead, I hold him close, and his head lies against my chest. “You need to sleep. Things are going to be better, I promise. You’re safe. No one will ever take you from us again.”
My words may be unintelligible to him, but the way he relaxes makes me hope my promise is carried to him on my tone.
“Nay,” he whimpers. “Nay. Nay-mi.”
My heart. I can’t take it. He misses her and it infuriates me. Playing with me, manipulating me was one thing, but she did worse to my son, making him love and trust her. Depend on her.
I thought I knew hate before, but not like this. I thought I understood pain. I had no idea. The pain you feel when someone hurts you is nothing near the suffering inflicted when someone hurts your child. It burns white hot with an intensity that bleaches out the world, blinding you to everything but the desperate need to make it better.
His whimpers fade and he dozes off. Quietly, I step out of the tub, wrap him in a towel and carry him to my room. Once Hatch is asleep, not much wakes him. He doesn’t stir when I put a diaper on him, place him in the center of my bed, and pull a blanket up to his waist.
Dani peeks in the room.
