Page 14 of Devil Seeks Nanny

I don’t let him get another word in. Whatever he wanted to say next transitions into a deafening, pained scream as I drive the blade straight through his hand until the tip of the knife comes in contact with the wooden armrest of the chair he’s sitting on. Or, well, sitting on is putting it nicely—Raf is easily holding Spencer down by the shoulders.

The sound of skin and muscle being torn squelches through the soundproof room, but it’s drowned out by Spencer’s agonized screaming. Neither Raf nor I flinch, having seen and done this thousands of times before. The amount of blood spilled in this room, and in general, by myself has had my hands permanently painted red. It won’t ever matter how much I wash them; the taint will always be there. Not that I care much. It’s the life I grew up in, the life I ultimately chose; there’s no going back from it now.

I stare blankly at Spencer, the grown man crying as sweat and tears coat his skin, staring frighteningly at his mangled hand. He screams again when I roughly pull out the knife. I wipe the blade on the sleeve of his shirt before spinning it by the hilt in between my fingers. “I’ll spare your other hand for today,” I say, coming to stand in front of the pathetic man. “But if I ever catch you sniffing around any one of my establishments again, I’ll chop off both of your hands.”

Tears and snot run down his face, and I curl my lip in disgust before jerking my chin at Raf, silently cueing him to let the piece of shit go. Raf releases Spencer’s shoulders, only for him to jerk the guy up to his feet as I spit at Spencer, “Get the fuck out.”

He cradles his bloodied hand to his chest, fear and pain freezing him in place before Raf yanks him toward the door. As he goes, I can hear Spencer whimpering repeatedly, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” before he is out of the room and Raf hands him off to one of the soldiers to get Spencer out of the building.

Raf stands in the doorway as Spencer is taken away, and he looks at the blood that had dripped onto the dark, hardwood floors. “I’ll get one of the kids to bring the mop,” he says.

Before he turns to leave, I rub my lower lip with my finger and lean against the table, asking, “Do we have any updates on the security cameras?”

Raf’s jaw clenches. “It’s slow going, Boss,” he tells me, which is exactly what I don’t want to hear. At my darkened look, Raf doesn’t flinch, but continues on, “Alex said he’ll be back tomorrow at the earliest to look into it, but without him, the others aren’t nearly as skilled.”

I exhale slowly, sharply, through my nose at that, but nod nonetheless. Alex is our resident hacker; no one knows their way around a computer than him, but his girlfriend just gave birth, so he’s been taking care of her and their new daughter. It’s time off that I gave him, but that was before this needed to be taken care of. Still, I’m not one to go back on my word, and I’m not about to drag the man away from his girls until he’s ready. We can wait until tomorrow. Hopefully.

“You think we should be looking into Benny Elliott, too?” Raf asks. “If it was a targeted attack, maybe it’d narrow things down if we knew if the target was you and your businesses, or just Benny.”

I purse my lips, considering the theory. It wouldn’t hurt to look into Benny. We need to search every avenue of possibility. Realistically, I know Diana wouldn’t be too thrilled if she found out we dug into her father’s life, but at the end of the day, she asked for my help. Sometimes the skeletons need to be brought out in order for us to find the truth, and that’s what she wants—the truth. If we have to sift through a dead man’s life to do it, then so be it.

“Fine, do it,” I say, clipped. My lips curl at the blood still staining the floor. “Get that shit cleaned up.”

*****

The house is quiet when I walk in, which is unsurprising. There are days when I arrive home past the kids’ bedtime, and days when I arrive and they’re still running around. Today’s a day of the former, and I push past the pang that lances through me at the idea of them having to go to bed without me being able to say goodnight to them. I tell myself it’s not a lack of effort on my part, for not being home in time. I remind myself that my kids know how much I love them and that they know I’m not home because I’m working to keep them safe, to keep allowing them to have the life that they do.

I remind myself of this over and over again, so it’s a little easier to breathe.

The living room is empty, as is the kitchen, but I see the light on in the hallway that leads toward the backyard. I pause, a few feet away from the French doors, where I catch sight of Diana sitting on a cushioned seat, a cup in her hand. The backyard lights illuminate her face, of which I can only see her profile, and my eyebrows pull together at the look on her face. The sadness. The despondency.

I have seen that look on my own face years ago before I perfected the mask to keep it from being seen by others. It is a look that accompanies heavy loss, the kind that settles on your heart and you have no way of lifting it up. At least, not yet.

She is, no doubt, thinking of her father. My jaw tightens, teeth gritting together at the lack of information surrounding this case. Maybe it would be mercy on Diana to tell her that the bakery fire really was an accident after all. That her father’s death was a tragedy but not one with any foul play. I had looked into Benny Elliott—I had done so when I first bought the building the bakery was in. And everything I have on him told me he was a good man. A single father, raising his only daughter and making his living off of the bakery that’s beloved by many. A good dad and a good employer—good overall.

So, yes, I could just tell Diana that it was an accident, but I can’t. Not when I also have an inkling that the fire was intentionally set. I want to find out who did this, who killed this innocent man, and who would dare act out against me. I am not without blood on my own hands, I know, but even I am aware that Benny Elliott had no reason to die. And maybe a small part of me wants Diana to have her answers, too; so she can have her closure.

But for now, I quietly walk up to the open French doors. On the table next to her is a small monitor that shows her black-and-white videos of Monica and Matteo sleeping in their beds. The twins are sound asleep, but Diana sits out here with a gentle breeze and nothing but the stars in the sky and hidden chirping cicadas keeping her company. If she has noticed my presence, she doesn’t hint at it. She keeps staring outward while I stand behind, by the doors, a tightness forming in my chest that has no reason to be here.

“You should go to bed,” I say. It’s a little past eleven, but I don’t see the exhaustion in her features. Just that familiar sadness that tightens my jaw. She isn’t even thirty yet but her face holds weariness that’s years ahead of her time.

Diana doesn’t look at me. “Don’t you want a report on the kids?” Her voice is almost hollow when she speaks, and I resist the urge to frown.

I’ve heard her sweet voice with the kids, and I’ve heard the slightly clipped way she’s spoken to me like she isn’t afraid of me, and even the hesitant tone in which she talks to me like she’s not sure if she should. But this—this emptiness that is loud in her voice, isn’t something I’ve heard before. And right then and there, I realize it’s not something I want to hear again. The realization is jarring but I push past it, not wanting to linger on the thought for too long.

I lean against the frame of the glass doors, arms crossed. My fingers dig into my arm as I look at Diana, wisps of her blonde hair dancing as a gentle breeze blows by. “Tell me what the kids did today.”

“They wanted to read, so I took them to the library to check out some books.” She glances at me, those blue eyes bright under the dim lighting of the yard. “I took one of your cars and security, so don’t worry.” I wasn’t. I know she would. She wouldn’t risk the safety of my children. “They rode their bikes out front for a little while. Then we watched some movies.” Her lips press together for a moment as if she’s contemplating whether she should say whatever’s on her mind. “Monica told me that on Saturdays, you used to bring them cookies from their favorite bakery. These new ones are okay but not as good. Unfortunately, she doesn’t know her favorite bakery’s nothing but a charred mess.”

My jaw clenches and something in my chest tightens as well. It seems as though Diana found out about our Saturday tradition. Not that it was a secret, but I know the reminder of her family’s beloved bakery—the sight of her father’s death—isn’t a pleasant thought. No wonder she’s sitting out here, looking like a woman lost in her grief.

I rub my jaw, looking out at the vast yard ahead of us. The breeze makes the swing set sway gently, the chains creaking in the night. “I’ll have to let them know,” I say, choosing not to make any sort of comment about her father.

“I can do it,” Diana offers. My gaze snaps to her, and she offers a one-shouldered shrug. “I can tell them that it was my bakery, but it’s closed for a while. I know all of the recipes for what we used to sell. The kids and I can bake cookies.” For the first time, she cracks a smile, though it doesn’t entirely reach her eyes. “Those were my specialty.”

I recognize the concern that hits me. Diana is hurting, and for the first time, I feel the need to alleviate her pain. It isn’t my place to want to do that but I feel the urge thrumming in my veins, no matter how badly I try to ignore it. “Are you sure?” I find myself asking through gritted teeth.

She nods. She stands up, then looks at me. Diana is much shorter than my six foot three height, and she has to tilt her head back ever so slightly to look up at me. But right now, she looks even smaller than her normal height, like the weight of the world is resting on her shoulders and is pushing her down constantly. I want to take it off of her immediately.

---