Smith
A floor below her, I wondered if she slept as the sun crept across the sky - reds and oranges. The kind of sunrise that made staying up all night worth it.
"Who are you?" a suspicious female voice asked, high, shrill almost. And suspicious.
The staff has arrived.
Early, likely, because they heard the news. And just like any sleazy ambulance chaser, they needed to see the inside details, get some information they could use to leak to their close friends and family members - hell, strangers in the drugstore - to make themselves feel more important.
I turned on my heel, finding a woman standing there in a uniform of similar material as hospital scrubs, but much more neat, tailored. Black pants. Gray top with a white wing collar, white buttons up the front. Her shoes were a pristine white as well, grippy, the kind of shoes waitstaff wore.
She was maybe in her late thirties - young enough still to do grunt work without worrying about her back and knees. Her hair was a bright copper red, the kind that could only be natural. Her eyes were small and wide-set to make room for her strong nose, a brown so dark they were almost black. Her cheekbones cut high, hallowed out. That, her thin neck, her frail wrists, all evident of her almost troubling thinness.
I made a life trusting my gut instincts. And my gut was telling me that this woman was someone you needed to be on-guard around.
I wondered if Jenny saw it, acted accordingly.
I imagined she did.
She seemed smart, keen.
To live in a house where the walls had eyes, where any misstep could have you beaten, yeah, I think she knew this housekeeper was out for herself only.
"My name is Smith. I'm from Quinton Baird & Associates. I am personal security for Mrs. Ericsson," I explained, reaching into my wallet to hand her a card that was made up specifically to say Private Security. It sat next to ones that said Consultant or Public Relations.
"Oh, good. I came in early because I was worried about Mrs. Ericsson all alone in the house after..." her gaze shifted, having caught something out of place at the corner of her vision. The bucket, rag, smeared bloodstain. "Oh, my," she said, her brow wrinkling. "She tried..." she trailed off, and I was almost certain the sympathy in her voice was genuine. "If you'll excuse me, Mr. Smith, I want to get this taken care of so she doesn't have to see it when she wakes."
"If you don't mind, I will make a fresh pot of coffee."
"Can you put the kettle on as well?" she asked as she stopped in the hallway that led to the laundry room. "I will bring the missus some tea up to her room after I finish this."
While making coffee, the back door opened twice more, bringing in the groundskeeper who was decidedly not needed since there was no fresh snow to take care of, but he claimed he was just dropping some rock salt Just in case. Then in came the second house worker, a woman well into middle age, round in the middle, short, with perpetually pink cheeks, dark brown hair pulled into a side braid, her gold-brown eyes heavy with worry. I couldn't quite decide if it was genuine yet.
After I introduced myself, she went to make Jenny's tea. "I'm Lydia. I cook here. And pitch in on some of the cleaning when Maritza gets behind on the straightening or laundry. I can't believe all of this. To think I just saw Mr. Ericsson the day before yesterday..."
There was a lot of that between the staff after Maritza finished the blood, and pointedly took the teacup, placed it on a white serving tray with a small plate of some rectangular, hard-looking, health-type cookies.
I braced myself for her reaction when she came back down, wondering if Jenny would fake it upon waking like she could with some warning.
"How is she?" Lydia asked, fiddling around wiping already clean countertops because she had no cooking to do.
"She must have gotten into her bath wearing her bloody nightgown," she said, waving a small washbasin where the champagne-colored dress was hanging slightly over the edge. "I don't know if I should wash it, or if she'd want me to get rid of it."
"Maybe wash it but keep it away from sight for a while," Lydia suggested. "In case, for some reason, she wants it."
"Yeah, maybe that is the best course. She's not doing well. Her face is cut and bruised. She was strangled, you know," she added in a whisper as though we had an audience. "Eyes puffy from crying. Didn't even lift her head from her bed. And what she was wearing."
Gossip.
Mean-spirited gossip.
About their employer's supposedly grieving wife.
I excused myself, not exactly sure I could hold my tongue if it went beyond her clothes that she wore after getting beaten as if that mattered at all. As if she should be wearing silk and lace to bed after a night like that.
My phone rang and I moved out front to stand on the steps, answering Quin.
"Updates."
"Good morning to you too, Quinn," I rumbled, shaking my head. "She seemed to pull it off. Waiting to see what today brings."
"Finn handled what you needed him to," Quin said, leaving out specifics like we always did. We needed to be discreet. You never really knew if anyone could be listening. "And Lincoln is on call for today. I know you're going to need sleep, but you'll have to pop into the office to update the file at least. I have Gunner, Kai, and Miller trying to sort through the paperwork, so don't worry about that. This is your main priority now. I wish I could..."
"Take your vacation and enjoy your time with your wife," I filled in for him. "I've been right by your side since you opened, Quin. I can handle this."
"I trust you. I just know that you would like some backup."
"Got the whole team," I reminded him.
"Yeah. This one with the political twist is just..."
"Speaking of, I think the senator is coming," I said, watching a sleek sedan moving down the street.
"Do you think he's suspicious?"
"I think he is the type to micromanage. Coming here to make sure the client is being respectable."
"Real prince."
"Yeah. Text me when he leaves," he said, voice going low as Aven called his name.
"Will do," I agreed, ending the call, reaching for another card, making a mental note to pick up more when I hit the office to do paperwork.
The senator climbed out of his car, eyeing me through his sunglasses before tossing them onto his dash, and making his way toward me.
"This is private property," he hissed. No puffy eyes. His only son was murdered and he hadn't even cried? That was a whole new level of cold.
"Yes, sir," I agreed, nodding. "My name is Smith. I work for a private security firm," I informed him, handing him my card that he briefly glanced at before tucking it into his jacket pocket and doing a painfully slow once-over. I knew he found me lacking before he even opened his mouth.
"This is a nice neighborhood. I would appreciate it if you dressed as such."
This should have pissed me off, hurt my pride, made my fists curl up. But bootcamp did a lot of things to a man, making them used to getting screamed at, condescended to. You learned to check your pride.
"Of course, sir. I came right from home. It sounded emergent. I will make sure the team and I all dress appropriately from here on out."
"Good. Would you move out of the way?" he asked, brow raising.
He's a real douche. I knew that for absolute certain as I stepped to the side then followed him in.
"Mrs. Ericsson is still sleeping."
He stopped mid-stride at that, clearly disliking it. A pesky little murder was certainly no reason to put appearances on hold, right? He pivoted on his heel, inspecting me for a long moment before giving me a nod, seeming to remember he was supposed to appear human, not an automaton.
"Right. Of course. She needs her rest. I am just going to speak with the staff. We don't need gossip leaking from the inside."
Speaking of gossip, there were no news vans out front, no newscasters on the lawn ready to put this on the next news cycle.
Reaching for my phone, I texted Gunner.
- Why is there no news on this?
It was only a minute or two before he got back to me.
- The senator hired a rent-a-cop to prevent non-residents or non-staff from coming in. Had news conference on the steps of his house late last night and just about half an hour ago though.
He wanted the press on him, focusing their telescopic gaze where he could control the story, not on the unpredictable widow who couldn't bother to get out of bed at an hour he deemed appropriate.
I felt another wave of sympathy for Jenny, wondering how the hell she found herself in this kind of situation. She clearly wasn't happy. The woman didn't even know if there were snacks in her own house. What kind of life was that?
But I guess, technically, it wasn't her house. It wasn't even her late husband's house.
It was the senator's.
And everything they said, did, everything they wore, what they ate or drank, everywhere they went, who they rubbed shoulders with, it all reflected back on Senator Ericsson.
I bet he wasn't just in the kitchen threatening the staff. He was grilling them as well.
As if on cue, I heard footsteps above. It was only a few moments before Jenny's figure appeared at the front of the staircase, bleary-eyed, her hair half out of its braid, her face still a bit swollen.
I knew it was crazy to think it, but I could have sworn I saw relief in her eyes as her gaze landed on me.
She offered me a half smile before moving toward the staircase, making her way down.
That smile froze and fell when the senator moved into the room.
He didn't see her until he saw me looking up at her.
His head turned, making her foot freeze before meeting the next step, everything about her seeming to shrink immediately. Her shoulders slumped and curled forward, her head lowered. She even looked shorter.
"Bertram," she said, sounding like she was called to the principal's office and was waiting to hear her punishment.
"Jennifer. This is... unbecoming," he informed her, voice more condescending than I had ever heard one before. And my life had been dealing with rich people. So that was saying something.
Never in my life had it been as hard to hold off from hauling off and hitting someone as it was as I stood there, watching her gaze skitter around - a rabbit encountering a wolf.
"I'm... I'm sorry. I..." she shook her head, trying to find the right words. "I didn't know we had company." She winced a bit as an afterthought. We. There was no more we.
"You are... not yourself," he allowed, and it seemed to be his way of softening even if he was still as rough as rock chipped from a mountain. "It is understandable. But you need to conduct yourself as though there is always company. I suspect that by tomorrow, you will be inundated by well-wishers coming to pay respects. You will need to be dressed appropriately."
"Of course," she said, nodding almost manically. "I understand. I had no idea what hour it was," she added, looking like her lower lip was actually trembling.
The bastard.
Like she wasn't going through enough. He was going to allow her life to become a three-ring circus.
"I have also informed you new security detail that he will need to be dressing appropriately." It was the first time since seeing him that she stiffened, chin lifting a little, spine straightening. She felt indignation. But not for herself. For me. "I am assuming he will be here during appropriate hours."
Appropriate hours.
Like there might be suspicion about her fucking her protection detail days after her husband was killed.
Christ.
He was always thinking of the media spin.
Everything in his - and her - life came down to the likelihood of his reelection.
I don't know why I stepped in, why I didn't allow her to handle the situation. It wasn't my place.
"Actually, Senator, with this level of violence and with the perpetrator still on the streets, we have advised Mrs. Ericsson that live-in detail would be necessary." Live-in? What the fuck? "She has agreed. And signed the contract."
His gaze on me, he missed the wide eyes Jenny had for a split second before she schooled her features.
"I thought it would be wise," she agreed. "If he wanted to come back to... finish things or simply steal from the house, knowing I was all alone here..."
"Of course. Yes. We don't need any more scan... we wouldn't want anything more to happen to you."
Anymore scandal.
That was what he was going to say.
"I have to go. I am asking that you stay in until the media calms down. I think it would be better that you do not get in front of a camera."
With that, and nothing more, not even asking if she was okay, he was gone.
I moved to lock the door behind him as Jenny sank down on the step. Turning back, aware of the ears the house had, I moved close enough that we could talk in hushed tones.
"Are you alright?"
"He doesn't want me in front of a camera because he still sees me as some poor white trash with crappy subpar public education. Like I might get up there and say something stupid."
"Hey, don't let his opinion of you become your opinion of yourself. All he can think about is what may or may not look good for his political future. In a little bit of time, you won't even be a blip on his radar anymore. You won't technically be related to him. You can move on, start over, go somewhere else. You'd never have to see him again. Let alone be lectured by him."
"Don't tease me," she said, and her lips twitched slightly. "So you're live-in now?" she asked. And I couldn't tell if it was wishful thinking or genuinely there, but I could have sworn she sounded hopeful.
"I guess I will be needing that guest room after all. I'm sorry I overstepped. I just got the impression that it was him trying to find another way to control you. I think you've had enough of that."
"You have no idea," she whispered, shaking her head. "I should go get presentable."
"No. Fuck him. For today, fuck him. Do what you want to do."
"I... I don't know what I want to do," she admitted, snorting a bit.
"What do you normally do with your days?"
"I workout."
"Because you enjoy it?"
"Not especially."
"Then don't do that."
"Then, many days, someone has a schedule for me."
"That's a no too."
"Then I just... I don't know."
"What do you normally do in your pink guest room?"
"Depends."
"On?"
"If I have to study or not."
"Study?" I asked, brows drawing together, not understanding.
"Yeah. Sometimes I do it in there just so it is less awful."
"What do you study for? Do you take online classes or something?"
"No. Yes. Well, sometimes. In a way. See, Teddy wasn't supposed to marry me. He was supposed to run his choice in front of his father. Or, more likely, choose from a list of his carefully chosen, acceptable former debutantes or heirs to pharma fortunes or such. Not some trailer trash who couldn't even tell you where The Virgin Islands were, let alone what kind government they have."
"You're not trash," I insisted, shaking my head, not liking even hearing her say that. No one would look at her and think that word. No one.
"So when Teddy married me without permission, he made it his personal mission to polish me up so I didn't embarrass him."
"But it's been..."
"Fifteen years," she supplied for me.
"What else could there be to learn?" I asked.
"Well, the first year or two was basic things. Better vocabulary. Chugging through a reading list. More geography than I got in school. And then after that, since then, it has been never-ending political education. From the basics of each type of government to the names and positions of everyone in U.S. politics as well as international."
"That sounds very... not fun."
"I guess it is nice to know things. And not to make silly grammatical errors like saying seen when I should say saw."
"So, when you don't need to study, what do you do in there?"
"I, ah, work with clay."
"Like in Ghost?" I asked, maybe liking the picture of her in a tee and panties in front of a wheel a bit too much.
"I wish. I've always wanted to take those classes. But no. That would never be acceptable. I just make, ah, little clay jewelry pieces," she admitted, looking down. Like she was embarrassed, like it was a silly, trivial little thing.
"It sounds like I may be here a while. Maybe you can show me sometime," I suggested, giving her a reassuring little smile, hoping it would be enough.
"Sure. I mean, it's just... tinkering. But I can show you."
"Well, do you feel like tinkering?" I asked, watching as her gaze moved around her entryway before settling on the spot where there was no longer a speck of blood.
"I want to curl up in bed eating candy bars and watching mindless television," she admitted.
"Then do that. But let me introduce you to Lincoln first. I have to run home to scrounge up some of my things. He will be here while I'm not."
"Okay," she agreed, looking down at herself.
"Don't change," I told her. "You earned a day in your sweats. No one - save for the senator - would judge you for that."
"Okay. I will just go fix my hair and rinse my cuts with some more witch hazel."
With that, she jumped up to do just that while I texted Lincoln, then waited for him to show.
"Sorry," he said half an hour later, shaking his head. "It is a shitshow with all the news at the end of the block. The rent-a-cop practically demanded a blood sample to let me through."
"Things have changed," I told him, seeing a few flurries start to fall, not knowing if we were meant to get dumped on again, or if it was just a passing dusting. "The senator showed up. Long story short, he thinks I am a live-in now."
Lincoln looked up at the house, letting out a whistle. "Movin' on up, are you?" he asked with a smirk.
"Yeah yeah yeah. Anyway, the staff I think is in the senator's pockets. Watch what you say around them. The client is careful too. She's coming down to meet you, but plans to spend the day in bed."
"So I get to roam around a mansion doing nothing for a while. Not a bad workday for me. Are you heading home to sleep?"
"Just the office to fill out the file, then home to grab some things. Suits."
"Suits?"
"Yeah, the senator wants us to remember Where we are, and to dress the part."
To that, he gave me an eye roll that I appreciated, glad for someone normal after so many image-conscious people.
"Alright. Suits it is. I'll remember next time. You go get your work done. The sooner you get back here, the sooner you can crash."
I left out the part about how I wanted to get back to look at clay jewelry made from the client as I led him inside, finding Jenny waiting a bit anxiously on the stairs.
"Jenny, this is Lincoln, Lincoln, Jenny Ericsson. Not," I added, "Jen."
"She managed a small smile at that. "Lincoln, thank you for coming," she said in what I could only call her hostess-voice. Phony, practiced, the cadence of it proper, upper crust.
"Jenny," he greeted her with one of his genuine megawatt smiles, the kind that made women fall for him almost instantly. "Don't mind spending a few hours in your place, honey."
"I'll just be a few hours," I told Jenny, having to fight the urge to reach out and touch her arm, elbow, anywhere that might be reassuring. But I couldn't do that. She was the client.
"Should I give you a key? The code?" she asked, brow furrowing.
"We can work that out later. Lincoln will let me back in when I get back."
"Okay," she said, looking like she wanted to say something else, like she needed to hear something else.
"Just a few hours," I added. "Do you want me to bring back proper junk food for you?" I asked, watching her eyes light up, knowing I had said the right thing.
"Potato chips," she told me, sounding like she was dying for them. "Plain or sour cream and onion. Not vinegar."
"Not vinegar. Got it. Anything else?"
"I would... die for a soda," she admitted, shaking her head at herself like it was a ridiculous indulgence instead of a common drink. "I haven't had one in over a decade."
"That's just... unacceptable. Any preference?"
"Surprise me."
And this, this was a much better note to leave on. She didn't seem too anxious to see me leave. And I felt better leaving.
"Stay by your phone," I demanded of Lincoln.
"Yes, boss," he said, meaning it.
For a short period of time, I was the boss.
And being the boss meant I had a shitload of paperwork to get to.
So I had to get going if I wanted to get back as quickly as possible.
I didn't stop to question why it was so important of me to get back to a client.
Because, well, I knew if I sat with that, if I dug, if I got bare-bones honest about it, I knew what I would come up with.
And those were thoughts a boss couldn't afford to think.