Page 49 of The Bodyguard

Slipping the flash drive into my pocket, I shut down my laptop and wander over to the window, looking out at the view. This is a beautiful, peaceful place in almost serene surroundings, but the more time I spend here, the more I can feel an air of darkness closing in. It’s strange; difficult to explain, a feeling of claustrophobia, almost.

I hear floorboards creaking above me as Lena moves about, and I glance up at the ceiling, and close my eyes. I take a deep breath and I try to push all the things I can’t afford to think about to one side, but it’s getting harder and harder to do that. The more time I spend with Lena Nielsen, the closer I’m getting to stepping over a very dangerous line. So close it’s actually scaring me. Because, against all my better judgement, I’m starting to care about her in a way I shouldn’t. A way I can’t. It’s wrong. It’s so fucking wrong…

Lena

To be fair, he’s keeping his distance. And that’s what I’d asked him to do, without actually saying the words. He got the message. He’s leaving me alone, it’s just – I’m not entirely sure I wanttobealone. Now.

I feel safe, knowing he’s downstairs. I know I’ve been full of this supposed bravado, telling him there’s no need for him to be here in the house, but in reality it’s nothing more than me putting up some kind of stubborn front because, yeah. I’m still scared. And I want him here, I do. I really do. I just don’t want him to know that.

Stepping out of the bath, I towel-dry my hair and get dressed. I re-apply some light make-up, check my reflection in the mirror, I look a lot better than I did an hour ago. I feel a lot better, I think I needed that bath. But now – I don’t actually know what to do with myself. It’s still early, not even lunchtime yet, and I’ve already had enough of my own company. I never used to be that way. I used to love being alone, it came with spending most days at work amongst people, all of the time, it made me value that quiet time to myself. But now – now I hate being alone. Eventhiskind of alone, with me up here and him down there.

I leave the bedroom and go out onto the landing, sitting down at the top of the stairs. Bodie’s in the kitchen, I can hear him. He’s talking to someone, so I’m assuming he’s on the phone, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. It’s too muffled. And no good ever came out of listening in to conversations that don’t concern you, but I can’t deny I’m not curious. Every time I’ve caught him on his phone he’s ended the conversation abruptly, he obviously doesn’t want me to know who he’s talking to. Rightly so. It’s none of my business. So I crush the urge to go downstairs, I’ll give it a few more minutes. But as I pull myself to my feet, it’s the stab of disappointment flooding my gut that takes my breath away. I don’t want to be up here, alone, while he’s down there. But every time I try to get closer to him – for real, not the pretend kind of closer we’re being forced to play along with – he pushes me away. And I’ve only just started to realise that I don’t want him to do that. I don’t want him to push me away…

Bodie

“I’ve got to go. I can hear movement upstairs.”

“Okay. Check back in later.”

Sliding my phone into my pocket I leave the kitchen and head into the hallway. I stop at the bottom of the stairs and look up, but there’s nobody there.

“Lena?”

I don’t know why I did that. Why I called her name, I never meant to do that. And I’m kind of hoping she didn’t hear me. She made it clear she wanted to be left alone, or as alone as she can be, under the circumstances, so why am I bothering her?

She doesn’t acknowledge that she heard me anyway, so I go back into the kitchen and make myself a coffee. Flick has the contents of Mikkel Nielsen’s laptop, now it’s just a waiting game to see if there’s anything on there that can shine a light on what’s going on between him and Novak. Why the Romanian is here, in the UK. And the fact we still know very little, when it’s obvious Nielsen knows a lot more, that’s frustrating. Actually, no, it’s fucking unsettling. It’s only fuelling our fears that this could be something we need to be ahead of. And we’re not. And that feeling deep in my gut, the one that’s telling me there’s something else we’re missing, it’s still there. And I think it has everything to do with Tawnee Nielsen. I think she’s hiding something, and I need to find out what that is, and yeah, it’s a hunch. But sometimes those hunches work out.

I take a sip of coffee and set my mug down on the countertop. Maybe I should go and check on Lena, make sure she’s okay.

Why wouldn’t she be…?

As I climb the stairs, I glance at the array of family photographs hanging on the wall to my right. These people, they look like any other ordinary family, in these photos. Smiling faces. Happy times. But this family is far from ordinary.

It's all quiet up here, just the sound of the odd creaking floorboard as I cross the landing. It’s an old house. That’s going to happen. And the door to Lena’s room, it’s slightly ajar, so, do I just go in there? Should I knock first? Has she heard me coming upstairs? I stop for a moment and take a breath.

Exhaling slowly, I move towards the door and tentatively peer inside the room, and I swear I was going to knock, I was, but it doesn’t matter anyway. She’s asleep, lying down in the centre of her bed, in the foetal position, her eyes closed. I can hear her breathing. And I know I have to grab this time, this chance, I might not get another one.

Backing away from the door I make my way along the wide hallway, trying my hardest to avoid those creaking floorboards. Tawnee Nielsen’s dressing-room is at the end of this corridor: her own space, not the bedroom she shares with her husband. I’m guessing if she has anything to hide it would be in here. But I’m just guessing: using those hunches again, it’s part of what I do, and I’m rarely wrong these days. It comes with years and years of experience.

As expected, the room is locked, and I wonder if it’s usually locked, or whether that’s because of me. Not because they know who I really am, if that was the case I wouldn’t still be here. No, it’s because I’m a stranger. And these people, they don’t trust easily. But locked doors aren’t a problem, and I’m in that room within seconds, scanning the space with its wall-to-wall built-in shelves and closets; huge floor-to-ceiling mirrors; a small en-suite bathroom to the side. But my eyes fall straight to a stack of drawers, there’s just something telling me to check in there. They don’t look like the rest of the furniture and fixtures in here, they look more like they belong in an office. They’re not built-in, they’ve just been slid into an empty slot between a wall of shelving and a line of closets. Are they locked, too? I pull the top one open, and find nothing in there but a blank notepad and two expensive-looking pens. The second one contains some paperwork, but on closer inspection it’s nothing more than a pile of receipts from a high-end jewellery store in town. The third one, however, is locked. Until I open it myself. And in this one is a file, just the one. One lone file.

I pull it out, open it, and read what’s inside, taking my time, making sure that what I’m looking at – it’s proven me right. That hunch, I was right to act on it. Inside that file are legal papers. Adoption papers. Lena’s mother is Tawnee Nielsen, but her birth father isn’t Mikkel. He’s her adoptive father, it’s all here in black and white. Lena was just a baby when these papers were signed, two days old to be exact. And there’s no mention anywhere of who her real father is, but it’s obvious Tawnee Nielsen had some kind of affair, a one night stand, she slept with someone other than her husband. I mean, they’re the go-to assumptions. Right? And the result was Lena.

Laying the papers out on the floor I take photographs of every sheet before putting them back into the file exactly as I found them, and fixing the drawer. Things are starting to make more sense now. It explains why Tawnee Nielsen is so desperate to keep Lena safe. Why Mikkel is so keen to keep his family together, I’m sure he wants no-one to know that Lena isn’t his blood: that his wife betrayed him. With who, exactly? It could be relevant or it might have absolutely nothing to do with what’s happening here, but something’s telling me I need to find out, for Lena’s sake.

Heading out of the dressing-room, I quickly fix the lock on the door and head back down the hallway, past Lena’s room, I don’t even glance inside this time. I go straight back downstairs. I make some notes, check in with Flick and ask her to do some digging, I’m beginning to think this family has more secrets than I’d first anticipated. And Lena is privy to none of them.

I’m hunting around for something to eat when she finally arrives downstairs, arms crossed over her chest, she looks like she’s just woken up. Because she has. But she doesn’t know I know that.

“You okay?” I ask, closing the fridge.

She nods. “Yeah. I went for a lie down after my bath and fell asleep, which I’m not happy about, because now I just feel like I’ve wasted half a day. What are you doing?”

“Looking for some food. But it doesn’t look like there’s much here.”

“We can order in. The pub down the road does a pretty nice Sunday roast, and they deliver, too.”

“Okay. Sounds good.”

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