Page 113 of All the Forbidden Things
I nod.
“Are you Billie Wild?”
“Yes.”
She’s looking over my shoulder to where Layla’s sleeping. Her eyes land back on me. With a nod, and her hand on her baton, she says, “Can you please put your hands in the air where I can see them and step towards me.”
I’m confused and don’t move. “What?”
“Can you please place your hands where I can see them and step towards me?”
It’s not a question; it’s an order. My legs feel as if they’re made from a combination of lead and jelly. I shakily stand, and as soon as I’m a couple of steps away from the bed, the officer rushes past me and picks up Layla. I’m still standing with my hands in the air but being totally ignored as the policewoman passes Layla off to a hipster-looking dude wearing skinny black jeans, converse, and a checked shirt. Contrary to his beard, thick-framed glasses and fresh-fade haircut, he looks about twelve years old.
Despite my mouth feeling as if I’ve been sucking on cotton wool balls, I soon find my voice when he moves towards the stairs with Layla in his arms. “Where are you taking her? Who are you? What’s all this about?”
Sick of holding my arms up, I let them drop to my side, and no one even notices.
“Can you follow us please?” Again, an order not a request from the policewoman, so I do as I’m told.
As soon as I step out of my front door, the shouting and calling starts up from the multitude of reporters and photographers gathered at Max’s front gate in the early morning light. I keep my head down as I follow the hipster and three officers across the drive into the house.
“Where are you taking her?” I call out to the hipster when instead of turning towards the kitchen, he heads for Whitney’s room.
The panic bubbling in my belly has me wanting to vomit. Tears are streaming from my eyes, and I know the fear of having no idea what’s going on is what’s causing them. “Wait, where are you taking her?” I move to follow wherever Layla is being taken, but an officer grabs my arm.
“We have some questions we’d like you to answer, Miss Wild, if you wouldn’t mind.”
I attempt to wrench my arm from the policewoman’s hold, but her grip is too tight. “Where’s Max? Where’s he taking Layla?” I ask while still trying to free my arm.
With absolutely no idea what’s going on, what to say, or how to act, I’m guided into the kitchen where I find Max is pacing.
I instantly move towards him, but the look he gives me brings me to a stop.
“Max?”
My phone’s been vibrating since the police came through my front door. I’ve not dared take my attention away from what’s going on around me to look at the screen, so, like the previous calls, I ignore it as it continues to go off in my pocket.
I watch as Max rakes one hand through his hair, and plants the other on his hip. He lets out a huff, blows out a breath, and says words that might very well be the beginning of the end of ourus.
“There’s been an accusation made, a … I don’t know the correct term, Bamm, but somebody has reported that they think Layla might be in danger.”
“What? I don’t understand. In danger of what? Who have they reported it to?”
I’m losing my fucking mind, and screeching out questions to Max as I cry, but I’m so fucking confused, angry and shocked by this that I can’t get my shit together.
“Some pictures have been shared to social media overnight. They show you in a pub with a number of drinks and empty cocktail glasses lined up in front of you. There’s also video footage of you tripping as you get out of a taxi in front of the house, dropping your keys, and then making several attempts to key in the correct number to open the gates.”
“That was last night. I don’t . . . I don’t understand why that would involve the police? What has any of that got to do with Layla?”
“There’s a story in one of the tabloids that you’re not coping after the attack on you in America, on top of losing your parents at such a young age.”
Max can’t even look at me as he talks, the fingers of one hand still buried in his hair, the other switching between rubbing at his jaw and gesturing towards me. “Someone’s reported the pictures, video, and the story to social services, claiming you have a drinking problem, and as Layla’s nanny, you may be putting her in danger . . . that I’m putting her in danger by employing you … that she’s at risk.”
“Max, I wouldn’t . . . I would never—”
I’m cut off by a blonde woman wearing all black entering the room. “Miss Wild?”
I fold my arms defensively across my chest and tip my chin, because fuck this, I’ve done nothing wrong. “Yeah,” is all I give her in reply.
