A shout sounds from upstairs and my heart trips. Throwing myself at the stairs, I take the steps three at a time, bursting onto the landing and into the kids’ bedroom in two seconds flat.
Octavia looks up from where she’s changing Cole’s diaper. Mary is standing beside her, a doll in her hand. They all stare at me, eyes wide.
“What the fuck,” I pant, trying to wrap my head around the fact they all look fine. Safe and sound. Alive. “What…?”
I can’t even formulate the question.
Octavia pulls up Cole’s pants and lowers him to the floor, turning to face me. Her slender brows draw together. “What’s wrong?”
Oh baby, too many things to count. But not a word comes out of my mouth. I lurch forward, grab Mary and Cole in my arms and drop to my knees on the thick carpet, closing my eyes.
The piece of paper flutters to the floor.
“Matt…” Octavia puts a hand on my shoulder, and I let go of Mary to blindly reach for her. I grip her arm, the feel of her solid, warm flesh chasing some of the fear away. “What happened?”
“You dropped this,” Mary says in a small voice, and lifts the paper from the floor.
I reach for her again and Octavia squeaks when I pull her along too, down to the floor, into my arms.
We stay like that for what feels like an eternity, until Cole squirms and babbles and wails until I let him go play with his toys.
Mary and Octavia are looking at me, quiet. I pat my daughter’s cheek, try to tuck a strand of hair behind her tiny ear, and she bats my hand away.
“Let me up,” she demands, and reluctantly I release her small body from my side.
Still afraid of me.
Not that I’ve given her much cause to trust me lately. I watch her join Cole by the window and grab a legless doll out of his hand, her face stormy.
Cole seems absorbed in his Lego construction. It looks like a haunted castle, all holes and uneven walls.
I shiver.
Octavia clears her throat, and I realize she’s still kneeling beside me—and I’m still holding her plastered to my side, my arm around her back.
Under my palm, through the thin cotton of her shirt, I feel her warmth, the fine bones of her ribcage, the curve of her hip, and a bolt of need shoots through my body. She smells so sweet, and her soft hair brushes my neck when she turns her face up to look at me.
So close. Her eyes like summer skies. Her mouth soft and inviting.
Pulling back my arm, I struggle to compose myself. I need to regroup.
Need to calm down before my heart gives out.
She unfolds gracefully, climbing to her feet. “Want to tell me what happened?”
The filthy piece of paper is scrunched up beside me where Mary dropped it when I hauled her to me.
I pick it up. Hand’s still shaking.
Dammit.
“Nothing happened,” I say and shove it into my pocket.
If this is someone’s sick idea of a joke, I’ve scared my family enough for one day. My family and the nanny who has no clue what a fucked-up crazy-ass mess her employer is.
Let’s keep it that way.
Chapter Twelve
Octavia
Something’s very wrong.
I knew it the moment Matt burst into the room, his face pale and his eyes burning. I was sure of it when he pulled us into his arms, sinking to the floor, as if trying to protect us.
But from what?
My mind keeps returning to that piece of paper he held in his hand. Was it something important? A personal letter? An official paper?
Matt is more silent than ever, which is quite the achievement, given he never says much in the first place. He leaves the kids’ bedroom, and I hear water splashing in the bathroom next door, then his steps going down the stairs.
I follow him down, determined to get some answers out of him, but can’t see him anywhere inside.
The door is halfway open.
He’s standing outside, on the porch, rubbing one of his wrists. He doesn’t turn to look at me when I approach him.
He looks like hell, hair windblown, falling in his face, dark smudges under his eyes, his cheeks sunken in. His beard is growing too long, the ends slightly curling.
I wonder if it’s soft or wiry. If his hair is a silky as it looks.
If I’ve completely lost my mind.
“Are you sure everything’s okay?” I ask carefully, not to set off his nasty temper. “Would you like me to stay a bit longer? I don’t mind,” I rush to say before he stops me or kicks me out. “I don’t mind at all.”
Silence fills the space between us, heavy and hot.
“No need,” he says after a few beats.
No thanks. No explanations. The crumpled piece of paper is half-sticking out of his pocket, but I can’t see what’s on it.
A chill travels up my back. I rub my hands together. “All right. I’ll leave you, then. You know, Matt…” I wait, but he still doesn’t turn toward me. This guy really is a tough nut to crack. “I may be barely legal, and I don’t pretend to be a genius or anything, but if you ever need to talk to me, I promise I’m a good listener. And I won’t betray your trust.”
His jaw clenches. His lashes drop, shadowing his cheekbones. He seems to be struggling with something.
Maybe he’ll open up to me, tell me what’s on his mind, what scared him so badly earlier.
But then he says, his voice clipped, “I don’t need to talk to you, or to anyone. Just go.”
And just like that the illusion shatters, and he’s back to his jerky old self.
It’s probably for the best. I’d almost imagined I saw a flicker of soul in his eyes. What a fool I was to believe it even for a second.
“You seem unhappy,” Adam says as we stand in line to buy our ice cream. “Are you okay?”
He looks concerned. He came on time to pick me up, and offered his hand when we crossed the street.
I declined, but still. He offered. He’s asking how I am. He’s being nice.
“Yeah, I’m okay.” I smile at him as we approach the counter and consider the few flavors available. “I was just thinking.”
“About what?”
“Nothing particular. Or maybe…”
“Maybe?” He lifts a brow.
“The future.” I point at the strawberry and vanilla for myself. “College, if I ever make it. Life after.”
“After what?”
I accept my cone and frown. “After I turn into someone else.”
What do I mean? I’m not even sure. I watch as Jessica gives him his cone. She’s smiling at him, sort of batting her lashes. Good God, do women actually do that? And wait, is she flirting with him?
“People don’t change, Tati,” he says, smiling at her before turning back toward me.
“Of course they do,” I snap. “People change all the time.”
I don’t know why I’m arguing with him. Maybe I’m just annoyed at Jessica for grabbing his attention while he’s here with me, for me. And he’s right. Stripped down to their core, people probably don’t change.
It’s the surface that changes—the daily thoughts, the everyday problems, the short-term goals. What you really want…what you truly need, that won’t change.
And how do you know what’s so essential? What will remain once you strip the veneer?