Between Here and the Horizon(17)

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 f*cking 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.