The Swap - Robyn Harding Page 0,81

And it was scary. Maggie let out a piercing scream of shock and distress, and something surged in me. A mother-bear protectiveness. I suppose it’s natural that I would have developed a bond with the baby after our many hours together, but the visceral reaction took me by surprise. I dropped my camera onto the armchair.

“Give her to me.”

“No,” Freya snapped, clutching the little body now racked with sobs. “Just take the fucking picture.”

“Let me calm her down first.”

“I’ll put a blanket over her. No one will know she’s upset.”

“No.”

“Do it,” she commanded, her eyes flaming at me. “Or I’ll find another photographer. And another nanny.”

It was an ultimatum. Comforting Maggie could get me banished from her life. And Freya’s life. Though the child’s anguish tore at my heart, I reached for my camera. Then the doorbell rang.

We both froze. Only Maggie kept wriggling and screeching. My eyes met Freya’s ice-blue gaze, and I saw the same dread I felt. There was no way of knowing who was at the door, but somehow, we knew it was trouble.

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The woman on the doorstep appeared only a few years older than I was, but she wore a cheap pantsuit and a severe bun, clearly an effort to be taken seriously. She held a briefcase in her hand, an old-timey rectangular one. She was even smaller than Freya, who was now standing in the open door, facing her.

“Freya Light?” she asked over Maggie’s continued screams. I bounced her gently and made shushing noises in her ear, but she was too traumatized to settle. We were standing several feet behind Freya, lurking in the foyer. She had dispatched Maggie and me to the nursery, but I had disobeyed her. I had to know who was at the door and what was going on.

“Yes,” Freya answered, her tone hostile.

“My name is Britney Chin. I’m with the Hawking branch of Child Protective Services.”

My stomach lurched. CPS had never checked on my younger brothers. This was not just a routine visit. Britney elaborated.

“We’ve had a call from someone who is concerned about your child’s welfare.”

“Who was it?” Freya snapped, which was probably the wrong response.

“That information is strictly confidential,” the young woman replied, and I could tell that this was exciting for her, possibly even her first case. Her enthusiasm did not bode well. “May I come in?”

Freya said nothing but stepped back to allow the petite CPS worker inside. It was too late to duck into another room; that would have looked guilty. But Maggie was still sobbing, was wearing only a diaper in the spring chill, was covered in tears and snot and drool. The woman took us in.

“And you are?”

“She’s the nanny,” Freya answered. “My husband and I are with the baby most of the time, but we have some professional obligations. We wanted to make sure all of Maggie’s needs are met.”

“Why isn’t she dressed?”

Again, Freya responded. “We were changing her when the doorbell rang.”

“She’s very upset,” Britney observed.

I took this one. “Colic,” I said.

This seemed to satisfy Ms. Chin, and she moved into the kitchen. Luckily, Max had done the dishes and stocked the fridge upon his return. She’d find nothing incriminating there. Freya trailed after her, snarling at me as she passed. “Get Maggie dressed and calm her down.”

I took the baby back to the living room, where her onesie was discarded on a chair. Dressing her would set her off again, so I swaddled her tightly in a blanket, and bounced her on my shoulder. Over her dwindling snivels, I could hear Freya and Britney moving to the main-floor nursery. After several minutes there, they climbed the stairs to the upstairs bedrooms. I had snooped through Freya and Max’s master bedroom on more than one occasion. It was simply too tempting when I was left to my own devices. There was a lot of lingerie, a few run-of-the-mill sex toys, but nothing that would condemn them as parents.

And then, they were headed to my basement quarters. My heart pounded against Maggie’s little body as I heard Freya and Britney descending the stairs. It was a disaster in there. I never made my bed or picked up my dirty clothes. But it wasn’t embarrassment that had me trembling, it was fear. Because I had things to hide. Serious things.

There was a small bag of weed, but it was concealed in a rolled-up pair of wool socks, buried deep in a drawer. I wasn’t a big stoner but sometimes a toke helped