Page 51 of For Wrath and Redemption
I tell myself it’s the vodka.
The next post is a video of me playing the chorus of “Blackbird” at the youth center. There’s no caption this time. You can only see the tops of the kids’ heads as they watch, but my image is so clear that you can see the lines on my face and the strands of my hair. The audio is crisp, and a few times, you can hear the kids whispering. It’s just enough to confirm the reports of my presence at the Stockholm Youth Center, but nothing more.
It's subtle,just like she’d said it should be.
Subtlety is key to making this seem organic.
I close my eyes and stifle a groan.
She’s so fucking good at this, and it’s already working. I think she might even believe what she’s selling. We’re lying to the whole world, and she doesn’t even realize it.
I scroll to the next post. It’s me on the plane ride here. I’m slouched in one of the recliner chairs with one of my legs thrown over the arm. Sprawled out and taking up space. The pose makes me look like an asshole, but I’m also wearing my glasses and reading a book. It almost seems to challenge the previous assumption. I’m sure this was Claire’s intention.
Strategic. Calculated.
Brilliant.
I don’t understand all the thoughts spinning in my head or the emotions building in my chest. It’s so opposite of what I’m used to, and it’s scary. I haven’t felt fear like this in a long time.
I fucking hate it.
I hate it because I’m not just starting to understand her, I’ve started tolikeher. To respect her. I’m a little in awe of her, to be honest, and that’s probably the biggest problem. Developing feelings for my nanny could cause a serious fucking mess.
The plan was to charm her. Not be charmed.
My stupidity blends with my curiosity, and I search for Claire’s social media profile. I find her easily. The excitement I feel when her account is public is embarrassing, but there aren’t a lot of pictures.
Most of the photos are of her in sexy little dresses showing off that figure I’ve started seeing in my sleep. Sky-high heels flaunting her long legs. Lipstick that makes her look ready to be kissed. Her straightened hair pisses me off, though. I prefer the curls. I like how they look when she’s freshly showered. How they coil at the nape of her neck when she’s sweaty and running on the treadmill.
There are a few photos in Central Park. A latte in a quaint little coffee shop. A tiny Christmas tree in front of a rickety, old window. It must be in her apartment. It makes me wonder what the rest of it looks like.
Does she have pictures on the walls?
What color are her bedsheets?
Does she have a bookshelf?
The questions form rapid fire in my head, but everything goes silent when I scroll to the next picture. It’s of a man’s hand resting on her thigh, just at the hem of another of her sexy dresses. He’s wearing a suit with gold cuff links, and I see the edge of a gold watch peeking out of his sleeve.
It's her boyfriend.
Jealousy flares hot in my chest and stomach. I can tell from the hand that the man is older, probably by a lot, and that pisses me off. In my head, he’s this rich cheating asshole who preys on younger women. Women like Claire. Women who act confident but crave praise and acceptance. Women with daddy issues.
I tap the photo to see if there’s a tag so I can stalk the fucker’s profile, but there isn’t one. I study the picture as if I’ll find his name or social security number hidden in the blurred-out corners, but then my eyes fall on something else. Something worse.
His cuff link.
It’s half in shadow, but I recognize theCengraved in loopy cursivefont. I know for a fact there’s anHnext to it. No one else would notice, but I know these cuff links. I know them because my brother and I gave them to my dad for Christmas years ago. He thanked Theo but not me.
Accusations and assumptions crash into me, but I breathe through it. Instead of storming into the bathroom and demanding answers, I pull up the number for my father’s office and dial his extension. I’ll poke around for clues through him, first. He’s always been easy for me to read. The phone rings three times before a woman answers.
“Conrad Henderson’s office.”
I clear my throat. “Who am I speaking with?”
“This is Mr. Henderson’s office manager, Dierdre.”
My heart stops.
