Page 42 of Kept

Thanks, Alessandro.

Next, I call Marie. Her mother was a cook here until she needed a new hip and retired. Marie basically grew up in the house. In addition to overseeing the household staff, she’s our default personal assistant.

“How can I help you?” she asks in a chipper voice.

“Can you locate a ballet instructor named Antoinette LeReoux and have her come to the main house for private lessons?”

“Most likely. When?”

“Now would be nice.”

She gives out a low whistle. “You sure you wouldn’t like something easy? Like a meal served in the lighthouse at the Statue of Liberty or something?”

I chuckle. “I have faith in you, Marie.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll call you when I’ve conquered the universe and all.”

I head back to my room and find Sarah seated on the windowsill, wrapped in a sheet and munching on a piece of toast covered in something green, which I assume must be avocado.

“Oh, hi,” she says.

“Hi, yourself. How did you sleep?”

“Like a rock. Something kinda wore me out before bed.”

I smile. “Really? Curious, I wonder what that could have been.” I walk to the window and look out over the neatly maintained lawn. Kissing the top of her head, I hand her my phone, already opened to text Marie. “Tell her what you need for ballet class. Be very specific so she can get you the right items.”

She gives me a confused look.

“You were worried about practice and the performances. It’s safer for you here, rather than trying to resume your normal schedule. Therefore, a teacher is coming here, and you, Robert, and whatever dancer is filling in will arrive shortly.”

Now she looks positively dumbfounded.

I point at the phone, and she obediently begins to type out a short list. I send it off and find Sarah staring up at me with wide eyes. I brush a strand of her soft platinum hair back behind her ear. “Finish your breakfast, you’ve got about an hour to get ready before your stuff is here. We will address the rest of your clothing and personal needs later.”

She blushes a beautiful shade of pink at the phrase personal needs.

“Not how I meant it, kitten, but yes, those too.” I wink at her. Now she’s positively scarlet.

Halfway back to my office, my phone rings. Marco.

“We’re on the way.” There is a terrible babble of noise in the background.

“On what? The subway?”

He groans. “No. Her friend has been protesting loudly and frequently about this arrangement. The poor girl that’s with him keeps trying to calm him down, but I don’t think she can hold a candle to him. She’s a tiny little thing. Looks damn near identical to the other one actually, but quiet as a mouse.”

I hear a soft female voice in the background, whenever the louder male voice stops to take a breath. Interspersed I hear Alessandro trying to reassure him that they are not going to be “whacked.”

“Have fun with that,” I laugh as I disconnect. Back in my office, the intercom is flashing.

“Yes?”

“Jack DuPont is here for you,” comes the gruff voice of the gate security.

“Let him in.”

One of the things I did when my father died was attempt to diversify our income stream, both in the legal and less-than forms. Jack has been my accountant for years. He keeps all of the books. He’s also a talented computer programmer and hacker.

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