Mr. Westley’s phone rings. “Yes. What? They took what? When?” He goes silent, and I hear the urgent voice of a woman on the other end of the line. His wife? “Jesus fucking Christ. Okay. Okay. I’m on my way.” He shoves the phone in his pocket with a shaking hand. He starts to fold up the newspaper, crumples it, and then sees me standing by the sink. “Dieter, could you—”

There’s a pounding on the front door and he looks toward it, his face draining of color.

My nerves start to tingle. Something’s going to happen. Something unpleasant. “I’ll get the door,” I say, starting forward.

But it’s as if he doesn’t hear me, and he pushes past me to the front door. I wait, listening, and hear the unmistakable clipped tones of the police in the hall. A moment later Mr. Westley comes back into the kitchen. He’s got his coat in his hand and there are two uniformed police officers standing behind him.

He looks at me, and then toward the stairs beyond. “Could you, uh, Adrienne...”

“I’ll stay here with your daughter,” I promise. “She’ll be safe.”

The police officers herd him out but another one is just behind them, a plainclothes detective. He’s in his forties, sandy-haired and somber. He sizes me up for a moment as if wondering how I fit in, and then turns away.

I think about the phone call I overheard. I’m guessing the “they” who took something was the police. Did the call come from the Herald offices perhaps? “Is Mr. Westley under arrest?”

His answer is predictably bland. “He’s helping us with our inquiries.”

So, not arrested, at least not yet. The detective shows himself out and I twitch the curtain aside in the living room. Mr. Westley is being put into the back of a police car with Battenberg markings. The plainclothes officer gets into an unmarked silver Ford Mondeo, and then both cars pull away. The two Gazette journalists—who must be thinking all their Christmases have come at once—are going nuts, shouting questions, flashbulbs going off like it’s a rock concert.

“You’re still here.”

I turn and see Adrienne looking at me, perplexed. An oversize sweater is hanging off one shoulder and she’s wearing a very small pair of pink pajama shorts. She peers past me to the street outside. “What’s going on? I heard voices.”

I drop the curtain and straighten. “Adrienne. Let’s get you some breakfast.” I usher her back through to the kitchen and make her sit on a stool on the counter. Stalling for time, I search through the cupbo

ards for cereal. What just happened? A plainclothes detective means a serious crime, and they went to the Herald offices as well. What could they want there?

I’m staring blankly at a closed cupboard and Adrienne prompts, “It’s in the pantry.”

I open it to find an array of cereals, some of which I only recognize from American television shows. Bemused, I lay out a selection that includes Honey Puffs, Rice Krispies, Cap’n Crunch, Lucky Charms, Apple Jacks, Cheerios, Reese’s Puffs and Cocoa Pops. “Someone likes cereal in this house.”

Adrienne doesn’t reply. She’s got a defeated air about her this morning that might mean she’s decided to let me get on with things. I should feel pleased, but I don’t. Be satisfied with this, I tell myself. You were never going to make her happy as well as safe.

“Which one do you want?”

“Umm...” She rests her chin on her hand, studying the boxes. Her sleeves are pulled up over her wrists. “Half Honey Puffs, half Apple Jacks, please. Where’s my dad, did he have to go out?”

Had to are the right words. I find a small pink bowl and a spoon, pour out her cereal to order, top it off with milk and hand it to her. She gives the bowl a faint smile, which makes me think it’s her favorite, and starts eating.

“He didn’t say, but I think the police just wanted to ask him some questions about recent events.”

She stops chewing and stares at me. “The police? What for?”

“I’m sorry, Adrienne, I don’t know.”

She puts down her spoon. I don’t really know anything for sure yet, so I smile and tell a little white lie. “But I’m sure it’s nothing. Formalities. The police love formalities. Now, come on, eat your breakfast.” When she picks up her spoon again I add, absentmindedly, “Good girl.”

If I just stand there and watch her she’s going to know something’s up, so I look around for something else to do. I notice that her feet are bare. “I’ll get you some socks. Are they in your room?”

She nods. “In the tallboy, second drawer.”

As I go upstairs I check my phone to see if Mr. Westley has texted, but I have no messages. I push open Adrienne’s door. Her room is large and exuberantly decorated in black, pink, purple and white. It’s like a gothic fairy princess grotto. The wardrobe is open and it’s a filled with a riot of pastel dresses and tulle underskirts. The dressing table is stacked with makeup palettes and lipsticks. There are sad and beautiful paintings on the walls, of broken dolls and angry pixies sitting under toadstools, which I’m sure she’s painted herself, and sketches of fantasy castles and goblins and unicorns.

Sketchbooks are spread over the floor alongside a spilled can of crayons, colored pencils and pastels. I feel my mouth crook at one corner as I look at a dozen rough drawings of goblins and dragons. Some are brandishing swords or breathing fire, but they’re more cartoonish than aggressive.

The socks are where she said they would be and I select a fluffy pair in pale yellow and go back downstairs. Kneeling down next to Adrienne, I pat my knee and she puts her feet on them, one after the other, and I roll the socks on.

“You’re kinda weird for a bodyguard,” she observes, wriggling her toes in her socked feet. But she’s smiling, and that’s what’s important.

Tags: Brianna Hale Erotic
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