by Callie Hart
“Sure, no worries. I got it.”
“Great.” And for the first time ever, Ronan Fletcher offered me a smile. It was enough to make me go weak at the knees. His dimples sunk deep in his cheeks, his full lips parting to flash white, almost perfect teeth at me, and my palms broke out in a sweat. “It means a lot to me that you’re here, Ophelia. I hope you know that. I’m very, very grateful that you agreed to come out to the island. Connor and Amie are going to rely on you a lot over the next six months. I know you’re going to do a great job of taking care of them.”
His sudden, earnest way of speaking to me was baffling, but it was a pleasant change, too. This wasn’t going to be so bad. I could handle anything and everything that was thrown at me if he was this Ronan, instead of grumpy, distant, kind of rude Ronan.
He opened his mouth, looked like he was about to say something, but then apparently thought better of it. “Anyway. Thank you again, Ophelia. I’ll let you get some sleep. Good night.” He walked off down the hallway, and I watched him disappear into the darkness, trying not to stare. Mom warned me before I left California that I shouldn’t fall in love with the boss. I didn’t think for a second I was going to, but that smile was something I could get used to. It would be very nice if I got to see it more often.
******
5:45 a.m.
I was awake. It was an hour before my alarm was due to go off, and there was nothing to be done about it. Stupid jet lag. My body clock was all over the place, and I’d been lying in bed for what felt like forever, tossing and turning, wrapping myself up in my sheets, fretting. A good start with the kids was what I needed. I’d barely had a chance to speak to them yesterday, and they hadn’t seemed all that pleased to see me, an interloper, ruining their private time with Ronan.
Pancakes. The situation called for pancakes. I could easily make them and keep them warm in the oven until it was time to wake up Connor and Amie. And Ronan…Ronan’s physique wasn’t exactly that of a guy who ate a lot of pancakes in the morning, but the thought of him sitting at the kitchen counter, wavy hair mussed and all over the place, pajama bottoms slung low on his hips, tearing into a breakfast that I had made him had me practically tripping over myself to get out of bed.
Downstairs: eggs, milk and flour. Butter in the pan. Kettle on the boil.
I put out four sets of knives and forks on the table, coasters and placemats, and then I panicked, removing one of the settings. You’re not part of the family, O. You’re the hired help. Don’t go forgetting that. Day one and I almost had forgotten, though. I was going to have to be really careful to maintain a professional distance from the Fletchers. Every last one of them.
Once the food was made and wrapped in tinfoil, stashed in the warmed oven, I decided to go have a quick shower before getting Connor and Amie out of bed. I was on my way back up the stairs when I noticed the white slip of paper taped to the door of Ronan’s study. Was it there before? I couldn’t remember seeing it, but then again I’d been concentrating on finding the kitchen so I could easily have missed it.
I wavered. Ronan was so specific about his study that I almost didn’t want to go and see what was taped to the door. It was probably a Post-it or something, reminding him to do something when he got up. I left notes for myself like that all the time. They say curiosity killed the cat, though, and it had already damn well near killed me a couple of times. It had certainly ended my marriage. I’d come home early from school one afternoon with a migraine and heard a strange noise upstairs. I’d gone up to our bedroom and found Will in bed with Melissa, and that had been that. So clichéd. If I hadn’t gone up there to investigate, there was every chance I would have still been married to Will. He was a coward; he probably would have continued screwing my best friend behind my back, but he would never have had the courage to leave.
Fuck it. I slipped down the hallway and stopped in front of Ronan’s study. Confusion swamped me when I saw that it wasn’t a Post-it note at all; it was a small, white envelope, and my name was written on it in blocky black biro. Why on earth would Ronan be leaving me notes taped to his study door? Wouldn’t he have slipped it under my bedroom door if he needed to leave me a note? Or on the kitchen counter, where I was more likely to find it? The study was tucked away from the rest of the house. You didn’t need to pass it on your way to any of the other rooms. It was a miracle I’d even seen the note as I started up the stairs.
I pulled the envelope from the door and opened it.
Ophelia,
Please follow these instructions exactly. Call 825 730 4414 and ask for Robert Linneman. Ask him to come to the house immediately.
Following that, call 911 and ask for the police. Explain that I am dead, and that my body is hanging in the study.
Do not come into the study.
Do not allow the children into the study.
Keep the children calm.
Keep the children safe.
Ronan.
My heart was a hand grenade in my chest, and I felt like I had just fumbled the pin.
What?
I re-read the letter at least three times before I felt bile rising up in the back of my throat, burning there—I was going to be sick. I dropped the note on the floor and knocked on the study door, holding my breath. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be fucking true. If this was Ronan’s idea of some kind of sick joke, then he was in for the shock of his life when I packed up my shit and left. No way I was hanging around for this sick, twisted kind of a trick.
“Ronan?”
Nothing.
Loud, this time.
“Mr. Fletcher?”
Still nothing.
Oh, god.
Without thinking, alarm rising through me, coming in crippling waves, I reached out and tried the door handle. The round knob wouldn’t even turn; it was clearly locked. “Shit. Goddamn it.” I tried rattling it, but the thing was solid, wasn’t budging an inch. Could I get into the study through a window outside? I had no idea. It was worth trying. I snatched the letter from the floor and ran back through the house to the front door, flung it open and raced outside. I wasn’t wearing shoes. Pain lanced through the soles of my feet as I tore across the gravel driveway. The side of the house was grass, thankfully. No more sharp rocks. Mud spattered up my legs, rank brown water soaking my pajama bottoms. It squelched up between my toes.
The first window was the living room window. The second window was the kitchen. It was the third window around the side of the house that belonged to the study. My palms slapped against the limestone on either side of the huge glass pane and I lurched forward, trying to see in.
I hadn’t even noticed that it was still dark. Dawn was moments away, but right now the sky was still a blanket of stars and faint, wispy clouds. There were no lights on inside the study. I had to press my hands against the glass, adjusting my pupils to the darkness before I could make out anything beyond obscure shapes and shadows.
And then I saw.
Bare feet.
The bare feet I’d felt giddy over yesterday. They were spinning very slowly in a counter clockwise motion. Ronan was still wearing the same simple plain black t-shirt and faded out black jeans he’d worn all day yesterday. His body was suspended in mid-air, hands relaxed by his sides. Slowly, slowly, his body spun, and then he was facing me, his head tilted to one side, eyes open and staring into oblivion. He was dead. There was no two ways about it. He was most definitely dead.
“No!” I clapped my hands over my mouth, shaking uncontrollably. What…what the fuck? How? How had this happened? Tears of shock sprung to my eyes. I couldn’t feel my feet. My legs. I couldn’t feel a single part of my body. Everything had gone numb. I braced myself against the wall as I leaned forward and threw up. Ronan’s letter was still in my hand. I crushed the paper against the rough stonework as I heaved and I heaved, vomiting onto the wet grass at my feet.
I couldn’t bear him staring at me anymore. I ducked away from the window and ran back into the house, my heart sla
mming in my chest. I was getting mud everywhere, but that seemed the least of my problems. The house phone. Where the fuck was the house phone? I eventually found it in the kitchen, sitting beside the dirty bowl I’d mixed the pancake batter in only twenty minutes ago.
Fuck Robert Linneman. I dialed 911 first. A woman picked up almost immediately.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“Hello? Hello, god, please, I need an ambulance.”
“Okay, ma’am. What’s your address?”
“I don’t…shit! I don’t know.”
“You’re not at home, ma’am?”
“No, no. I…I just started a job. I just started a new job here.”
“Not a problem. I have an address connected to this phone line. What’s happened, ma’am? What’s your emergency?”
“My boss…he’s hanged himself in his study. The door’s locked. I can’t…I can’t get it open. I saw him through the window.”
“Can you break the window, miss?”
I hadn’t even thought of that. “Uh, yes, I can. I think…I think he’s dead, though.”
“Could you see him struggling at all, miss?”
“No. His body was still. His eyes were open.”
A long pause followed. “Okay. Someone’s already on their way to you now. Won’t be a minute. Can you stay on the line with me until help reaches you?”
“Feelya?”
I nearly dropped the phone. Next to me, Amie had appeared out of nowhere and was standing in her tiny little pink nightie covered in fairies, peering through the glass screen into the oven. “Are we having sunshine scramble for breakfast? Daddy always makes us sunshine scramble.” Her tiny little face was filled with hope.
“Miss? Miss, can you hear me?”
“I’m sorry, I have to go,” I whispered. The phone clattered against the counter as I let go and hurried over to Amie and picked her up in my arms. “Hey, sweetie. You’re out of bed early,” I told her, tucking her messy hair back behind her ears. Apart from the brief time I’d spent with them when Ronan introduced us yesterday, Amie hadn’t had any interaction with me. She looked surprised and uncomfortable at the fact that I’d picked her up and I was mothering her.
“Why have you been crying?” she asked, frowning.
“Oh, I burned my finger on a hot pan, sweetie. It’s all better now, though, I promise.”
“Your feet are dirty.”
“I know, I know, I made a mess, didn’t I? I’ll be able to clean it all up after breakfast, though. Won’t take me long. Why don’t you sit down at the table, and I’ll get you some of those pancakes, huh?”
Don’t let the children see.
Keep the children calm.
Keep the children safe.
Amie seemed appeased by the thought of food. I got her settled at the table and served up two pancakes on a plate for her, hastily cutting them into small pieces and drizzling maple syrup over them. Her eyes lit up when she saw how much food I’d heaped onto her plate. “Stay here for a second okay, honey? I just have to make a quick phone call.”
Amie nodded, cheeks bulging.
My fingers were sticky with syrup when I dialed the other number on Ronan’s letter. The phone buzzed eight times before a groggy sounding woman picked up. “Hello?”
“Hi. I’m looking for…Robert Linneman,” I said, checking the letter. “Ronan Fletcher asked me to call.”
“I’m afraid Mr. Linneman’s office hours aren’t until nine.” The woman, who’d sounded half-asleep a second ago, now sounded angry instead. “Mr. Fletcher is really going to have to learn that people aren’t at his beck and call twenty-four seven.” In the background, I heard a low, deep voice asking who it was. “Someone from Fletcher’s office. Damn people need to learn to check the time before they start making calls at the crack of dawn. This isn’t New York. We’re not all up and working at five in the morning.”
“I’m…I’m not in New York. I’m on Causeway Island. I’m afraid there’s been some sort of accident over here,” I said quietly, shielding the receiver so Amie couldn’t hear me. “Ronan left a note and asked that I get Mr. Linneman to come as quickly as possible.”
“Oh. I see.” Whispering on the other end of the phone, and then the sound of the handset creaking as it was handed over to someone else.
“Hello, this is Robert. You’re Ophelia?”
Shock rode over me in another wave. He knew who I was? Well, he was certainly at an advantage because I had no idea who he was. “Yes. There’s an ambulance on its way. I was meant to call you first, but...”
“It’s okay. I’m on my way. Don’t let the police take anything before I get there. Are you listening, girl?”
“Yes. Yes.” I nodded, clutching tightly to the phone, as if the receiver were the only thing keeping me upright. “Please. Hurry.”
******
“And what time was it when you came downstairs, Miss Lang? Was the note already there then?”
I’d relocated Amie up to her room when the police had arrived. The red and blue flashing lights of their car had cast long, brilliant shadows across the lawns as it sped toward the house, but the sirens had thankfully been silent. Amie had gone upstairs without a peep, taking her breakfast with her, plate gripped tightly in both hands, before the two uniformed officers had even entered the house.
Now I stood in the hallway outside Ronan’s office with the cops, feeling very small and very useless as I tried to answer their questions.
“I don’t know. I didn’t notice it. I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Do you have a key to this door?”
I shook my head. “No. He didn’t want anyone going in there.” I’d already shown them the note.
“We’re gonna have to kick it in then. That okay with you?”
I nodded, throat aching and too swollen to speak unless it was absolutely necessary.
“Stand back then.” The tallest, broadest guy got the job done in one swift movement, slamming the sole of his boot into the door just below the handle. The door sprang open, hitting the wall with a crash. I didn’t look inside the room. I’d seen enough through the window outside; I was going to be dealing with the nightmares for the rest of my life as it was.
I still couldn’t wrap my head around what was happening. Less than twenty-four hours inside the house, and the guy who employed me was dead? How did something like this happen? It categorically made no sense whatsoever. It was such a mistake to leave California. I should never have come here.
Both police officers went inside the study. I sat on the bottom step of the staircase and gnawed on my fingernails until they came back out again ten minutes later. “He’s been dead for some time. Body’s very cold. I’m not a forensics guy, but I’d say he’s been there at least six hours, probably.”
Six hours? So he’d come up to my room last night and thanked me for coming out here, thanked me from the bottom of his heart for agreeing to come all the way across the other side of the country to take care of his children, and then he’d come straight down here, tied a noose around his neck and stepped off a goddamn chair? That’s what it sounded like had happened. God, Ronan had been hanging in there, cold and dead, while I’d been prancing around the kitchen in my PJs, making pancakes, fantasizing about what he might look like all ruffled from sleep, complimenting me on my excellent cooking skills. What a nightmare.
The mud from the lawn had dried on my feet and cracked, turned almost white. My big toenail had been bleeding at some point; I must have caught it on something when I ran outside.
“Did you have any suspicion that Mr. Fletcher was planning something like this?” the second cop asked. He was squat and muscular. A redhead with a smattering of freckles across his face that he probably hated.
“No. No idea whatsoever. Like I said, I barely knew him. He hired me to look after his children. I only arrived on the island yesterday.”
Sympathy traveled across the guy’s face. “Quite a shock, then,” he said,
which was possibly the understatement of the century. “Where are the children now?”
“Upstairs. I didn’t want them to know anything’s going on.”
The cop nodded. “Okay. We’ll have to call in CPS. They don’t have an office here on the island. Can you take care of them until someone can come and get them? Might not be until tomorrow now. There’s a storm on its way in.”
“Uhhh, yeah. Yeah, sure.” Damn. How long was it going to take Child Protective Services to get here? Long enough, I assumed. Long enough that I was going to have to tell Connor and Amie that something had happened to their father.
Officer Hinchliff (his name was stitched onto the breast pocket of his thick, waterproof jacket) was right about the storm. Out of the window in the distance, the sea looked choppy and angry, the faint outline of the mainland six miles away a grim gray streak, hovering above the water. Lightning was striking out over the ocean, tearing across the cloud-heavy sky one second, gone the next, like the tail of a whip.
“You’re going to have to come down to the station and make a statement as well, Miss. We won’t be able to hand over the documents in Mr. Fletcher’s office until we’ve confirmed that this actually is a suicide.”
“I don’t think I’ll be taking possession of his paperwork,” I said, shaking my head. “And what do you mean, confirming that this is a suicide? You can’t…you can’t think I did this.”
Of all the ridiculous, moronic things I’d ever heard, that had to be the most astounding. Officer Hinchliffe was quick to shake his head. “No, no. I mean, it looks pretty straightforward in there, but Mr. Fletcher was a very wealthy man. And what with the letter addressed to you in there—”
