The Swap(66)

“Yes,” Freya answered, her tone hostile.

“My name is Britney Chin. I’m with the Hawking branch of Child Protective Services.”

My stomach lurched. CPS had never checked on my younger brothers. This was not just a routine visit. Britney elaborated.

“We’ve had a call from someone who is concerned about your child’s welfare.”

“Who was it?” Freya snapped, which was probably the wrong response.

“That information is strictly confidential,” the young woman replied, and I could tell that this was exciting for her, possibly even her first case. Her enthusiasm did not bode well. “May I come in?”

Freya said nothing but stepped back to allow the petite CPS worker inside. It was too late to duck into another room; that would have looked guilty. But Maggie was still sobbing, was wearing only a diaper in the spring chill, was covered in tears and snot and drool. The woman took us in.

“And you are?”

“She’s the nanny,” Freya answered. “My husband and I are with the baby most of the time, but we have some professional obligations. We wanted to make sure all of Maggie’s needs are met.”

“Why isn’t she dressed?”

Again, Freya responded. “We were changing her when the doorbell rang.”

“She’s very upset,” Britney observed.

I took this one. “Colic,” I said.

This seemed to satisfy Ms. Chin, and she moved into the kitchen. Luckily, Max had done the dishes and stocked the fridge upon his return. She’d find nothing incriminating there. Freya trailed after her, snarling at me as she passed. “Get Maggie dressed and calm her down.”

I took the baby back to the living room, where her onesie was discarded on a chair. Dressing her would set her off again, so I swaddled her tightly in a blanket, and bounced her on my shoulder. Over her dwindling snivels, I could hear Freya and Britney moving to the main-floor nursery. After several minutes there, they climbed the stairs to the upstairs bedrooms. I had snooped through Freya and Max’s master bedroom on more than one occasion. It was simply too tempting when I was left to my own devices. There was a lot of lingerie, a few run-of-the-mill sex toys, but nothing that would condemn them as parents.

And then, they were headed to my basement quarters. My heart pounded against Maggie’s little body as I heard Freya and Britney descending the stairs. It was a disaster in there. I never made my bed or picked up my dirty clothes. But it wasn’t embarrassment that had me trembling, it was fear. Because I had things to hide. Serious things.

There was a small bag of weed, but it was concealed in a rolled-up pair of wool socks, buried deep in a drawer. I wasn’t a big stoner but sometimes a toke helped me through a long, dull day of babysitting. There was a lighter and rolling papers, too, but they were also well hidden. If discovered, they would be damaging. They might even get me fired. But if they found the photographs, my entire world would come crashing down around me.

Most of them were on my phone, and I was pretty sure Britney Chin did not have the authority to make me enter my passcode so she could search the device. But I had asked Thompson to print a copy of each photo, so I could hold them, touch them, stroke them. He had complied, handing them over to me with a disturbed look on his face. Under my mattress were five four-by-six photographs of Freya and Max making love on the living room floor. No . . . they weren’t making love. It was too intense, angry, and violent to be called that. They were photos of them fucking while Freya periodically hit, bit, and scratched him.

I’m not a voyeuristic perv; the photo shoot was not premeditated. I had been roused from a deep slumber by thumps and bangs and Freya’s angry shrieks. I’d considered ignoring the cacophony. They wouldn’t thank me for my interference if it was just another squabble like last time. But something—concern or curiosity—had drawn me out of bed and up the stairs. By then, the cries had ceased, morphed into gasps and moans, the thumps into a rhythmic knocking. What I saw from my vantage point on the second-top step was rough and wrong . . . and so hot.

I’d had my phone in my hand—I must have grabbed it on autopilot in case I needed the flashlight app. Crouching lower on the stairs, I took a video of the action, and several still shots. It was for my viewing pleasure . . . for flexing my recently discovered sexuality muscle. And it was collateral. If things went wrong with Freya again, if she tried to boot me from her universe, I would have ammunition.

But if Britney Chin found the photos under the mattress, all hell would break loose. Was rough-sex porn starring a baby’s parents grounds for the child’s removal? What if the rough sex porn had been secretly documented by the nanny? Did that make it better or worse? I didn’t know. But I knew that Freya would fire me. I knew she’d find my phone on the dresser and she would smash it, drown it, destroy the evidence. She’d come for my camera, too. It was still on the chair, and I scooped it up by the strap. But I couldn’t protect it and hold Maggie at the same time. I waited, my heart in my throat, for Freya’s angry voice. And then I heard their feet coming up the stairs.

The women entered the room and, while their expressions were grim, it was clear they had not found the photos or the marijuana. Britney strode purposefully into the living area, the last unexplored space. Maggie was dozing now, exhausted from her previous outburst, and I breathed a sigh of relief. The CPS worker scoured the room, but I knew we were in the clear.