Page 22

Izzy

We’re just past Grace Olsen’s house when Brody bursts out, “Hey, is that the tree?”

He points ahead to what could be the correct arboreal marker for the path to the Shack. Sure enough, there’s something of a trail that’s slightly overgrown, but not so much that we can’t follow it.

“Good job, Brody,” I say, ruffling his hair.

He beams at me appreciatively. There’s so much joy in his eyes that I briefly forget all the grief he’s given me since I started this job.

We make our way single file, with Nutmeg in front, me right behind, and Taylor bringing up the rear after the twins. Before we get far, I see, through the trees, several police cars zipping down the road. The whoosh of their wheels tells me they’re in a hurry.

Taylor and I have a silent exchange, both of us apparently sharing the same fear.

Did someone find Fiona?

I turn around and tell a white lie: “Hey, kids, I just realized I left the brownies for our picnic on the counter. Let’s head back and we’ll do this again and bring your father. Brody, I know he’ll be so excited that you found the path!”

The fort doesn’t matter as much to Brody as the praise from his dad and the promise of brownies. Luckily, Becca is on the same page, her eyes brightening at the mention of the sweet treat.

We head back at a relaxed pace. There’s no crisis as far as the kids are concerned, though I’m full of dread. Nutmeg didn’t have any luck finding Fiona, but could someone else have stumbled across her body? I can’t help but imagine the worst. Then again, I am my mother’s daughter.

Two police cars are parked in front of David’s house when we arrive, but no ambulance, so no gurney for a body. I suppose that’s a good sign. Regardless, I’m still on the clock, and I need to manage this situation with the kids to the very best of my ability—which means making it up as I go.

I’m stuck because I can’t simply ignore the scene before us.

Police cars with flashing lights aren’t exactly subtle.

The kids are naturally curious, but my burgeoning nanny instincts tell me that in this case, less is more.

Taylor sees that I’ve got my hands full.

She and Nutmeg depart with a brief wave goodbye, leaving me on my own to figure something out.

I dig deep, thinking back to my psych classes and my nannying research, and I reach the professional conclusion that I need to gaslight the children.

“What are the police doing here?” Brody asks, pointing to a burly officer who stands joylessly beside his cruiser. He has the hat, gun, blue suit, and shiny badge that would attract any young boy’s attention, but I make nothing of it.

“Well, obviously they were called here,” I say blandly. “The police wouldn’t show up somewhere without being summoned.”

Brody is so busy puzzling out my non-explanation that he neglects to ask the most obvious follow-up question: Why would someone have called the police?

“Come, children,” I say, taking their hands. “Let’s go upstairs and build a blanket fort! We’ll have our picnic there.”

Brody and Becca are befuddled enough for me to whisk them inside without protest or further inquiries. Success.

As we head for the stairs, I notice that David is off in a corner of the living room talking with a woman who looks official, but she isn’t wearing a police uniform. She might be a detective.

He eyes me with concern as I pass by. I respond with a dutiful nod that conveys I have everything well under control. I escort the children upstairs, and suggest they start on the blanket fort while I get the brownies.

Downstairs I go. The scene before me is emotionally charged, which matches my inner state. David talks in a low voice to the detective, who scribbles in her little spiral notebook.

It’s one thing to obsessively listen to murder shows and something else entirely to be in the midst of one. Not that I think Fiona is dead. Missing is different—unless you are Anna Olsen or Susie Welch, with prolonged absences that leave no other possible explanation.

The lake takes them…

I fear the detective will want to speak with anyone who has information about Fiona’s whereabouts. Not only have I been in Fiona’s presence, I’m technically living under the same roof. But I don’t know anything. I have nothing to offer. So why is my heart pounding like a bass drum?

The detective peers at me over her shoulder.

I find her assessing stare unnerving, as though she can read my thoughts with a glance.

She is rugged and durable, with a head like a block of granite and eyes that wouldn’t smile even if you held a puppy in front of them.

She’s in her early thirties and has short hair that’s styled in a way that suggests she doesn’t care much about hair.

She’s dressed in a tailored dark pantsuit with subtle pinstripes that enhance her air of authority.

Beneath her blazer, she wears a crisp white button-up shirt open enough to reveal a small sapphire pendant attached to a discreet silver necklace.

Her black leather ankle boots are speckled with mud that she may have acquired while searching for Fiona.

David’s nervous energy is palpable. His gaze lands everywhere except on the detective, who is still focused on me.

“Hey there, I’m Detective Ruth Baker. Are you the nanny?”

Oh, shit. Now I know how a cornered fox feels.

Supposing Detective Baker is even remotely good at her job, she may figure out I fabricated my way into my current position.

She who does the lies also does the crimes.

I’m only nineteen, but I think I’ve just had my first hot flash. “Yes, I’m the nanny,” I squeak.

Even my job title makes me sound guilty of something.

“Can you stick around? I’d like to talk with you after I finish here.” Baker sends a stony stare, and I know an order when I hear one. The good news is, I don’t have to strain to eavesdrop on David’s interview.

“How long have you and Fiona been together?” the detective asks. Her voice matches her appearance—gravelly and joyless, different from how she spoke to me, a lot less friendly. Is David already under suspicion?

“About three months now,” he says. “We met at a coffee shop near my home in Manhattan. She forgot her wallet, so I offered to pick up the tab.”

“How chivalrous,” mumbles Baker, staring at her notepad. “And Fiona—what’s her last name?”

The detective has pen to paper, ready to jot down the answer, but interestingly enough, David seems to have drawn a blank.

His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I don’t know Fiona’s last name, either, but I’m not the one sleeping with her.

The pause lasts long enough for us all to squirm. Finally, it clicks for him.

“Maxwell,” he spits out. “Fiona Maxwell. Sorry, I’m just a bit shaken by all this.”

“I bet,” says Baker, her pen scratching something on her notepad that’s probably not in David’s favor.

“Do you have a picture of her?” Baker asks.

David takes out his phone, and the detective gives his screen a cursory look.

“Pretty,” she notes.

“Yeah, she is,” David agrees.

“And young, ” Baker adds with emphasis.

David’s posture stiffens. He’s the talent scout who doesn’t like to be on the receiving end of scrutiny, especially from a woman.

“She’s in her thirties.” He sounds defensive. “She’s not a kid.”

Detective Baker utters an ambiguous “uh-huh” while giving the home interior the once-over. “Nice place you have. Appearances are important to you?”

David’s eyes narrow. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at, Detective, but I’d certainly like Fiona to appear back here,” he answers testily.

I have a feeling he doesn’t realize who he’s up against. Baker is shrewd. She knows showy people like David Dunne wouldn’t hesitate for one second to tell a lie to safeguard their veneer of perfection.

“So, you two are close?” Baker asks.

David screws up his face. “She’s my girlfriend,” he says, as if that’s answer enough.

The detective’s eyebrows arch questioningly. I’m watching her watch him. Did she catch him lick his lips or run his hand through his hair? Something tells me Baker sees all and then some.

“What I’m really wondering is if you two had any recent arguments or relationship troubles?” Baker continues. “Anything that might make her want to take off without saying goodbye?”

I’m thinking: Hell, yes, but David’s blank expression veils his emotions.

“No, not really. I mean, she drank a lot last night. She wasn’t herself, so we had a little heated discussion outside, but it was no big deal.”

I figure the detective will pounce on the fight that David tried to downplay, but to my surprise she goes in a different direction. It’s almost like I can hear alarm bells ringing in her head.

“From my experience, alcohol and water do not mix,” Baker says gravely.

“She hates lake water,” David says. “She’d never go swimming.”

“When people drink, they often say one thing but do another. We need to search the lake—now.”

Baker gets on her cell phone.

“Hey, Tom,” she says. “I’m at the Dunne residence following up on the missing person report.

” She gives the address. “We need three divers on the scene ASAP to search for a body in the water. Yeah, that’s right.

The missing woman is Fiona Maxwell. Last known whereabouts were this address.

Evidently, she had a lot to drink last night and may have gone for a swim.

The boyfriend says he’s called the cell, and it goes to voicemail, but let’s try to get a last known location on it—you know how to do the paperwork.

And send a K-9 unit, too. Maybe we get lucky, and she had enough common sense to stay on land. ”

Baker ends the call, but her expression remains somber.

“I’m sure you’re worried, but let’s have faith. We need to let the search teams do what they do best and hope we find Fiona alive and well. Do you know how to reach her family? Someone should let them know what’s going on. And who knows, maybe she’s been in contact with them.”