The Turn of the Key - Ruth Ware Page 0,94

a cup for a change. Or would you prefer something a wee bit stronger? A dram, maybe?”

“Whiskey, you mean?” I said, slightly startled, and he grinned and nodded. I gave a shaky laugh. “Bloody hell, Jack. It’s barely lunch.”

“All right then, just tea. But you sit there while I make it. You’re always running around after those kids. Have a sit down for a change.”

But I shook my head, stubborn. I would not be that woman. I would not be one of those other four nannies . . .

“No, I’ll make the tea. But it would be great if you could—” I paused, trying to think of a job he could do, to soften the refusal of help. “If you could find some biscuits.”

I remembered myself giving Maddie and Ellie jammie dodgers after the shock of the speakers going off in the middle of the night. Sugar is good for shock, I heard my own voice saying, as if I were a frightened child, able to be jollied back to cheerfulness with a forbidden treat.

I’m not normally like this, I wanted to say, and it was true. I wasn’t superstitious, I wasn’t nervy, I wasn’t the kind of person who saw signs and portents around every corner and crossed themselves when they saw a black cat on Friday the thirteenth. That wasn’t me.

But for three nights now I’d had little or no sleep, and no matter what I tried to tell myself I had heard those noises, loud and clear, and they were not a bird, whatever Jack thought. The senseless, panicked crashing of a trapped bird—that would have been scary enough, but it was nothing like the slow, measured creak . . . creak . . . that had kept me awake, night after night. And besides, that bird was dead—long dead. There was no way it could have been making noises last night, or any night for a while. In fact judging by the smell and the state of decomposition, it had probably been up there for several weeks.

The smell . . .

It had stayed with me, fusty and choking in my nostrils, and as I carried the tea across to the sofa, I found I could still smell it, even though I’d washed my hands. It clung to my clothes, and my hair, and glancing down I saw a long streak of gray on the sleeve of my jumper.

The sun had gone in, and in spite of the underfloor heating, the room was not particularly warm, but I shrugged the sweatshirt off and put it aside. I felt that I’d have frozen rather than put it back on.

“Here you go.” Jack sat beside me, making the springs of the sofa squeak, and handed me a rich tea biscuit. I dipped it automatically into my tea, then took a bite, and shivered, I couldn’t help myself. “Are you cold?”

“A bit. Not really. I mean, I have a jumper, it’s just I didn’t—

I couldn’t—”

I swallowed, then, feeling like a fool, I nodded at the streak of attic dust I’d noticed on the sleeve.

“I can’t get the smell of that place out of my head. I thought maybe it was in my sweater.”

“I understand,” he said quietly, and then, as if reading my thoughts, he stripped off his own jacket, streaked with cobwebs, and laid it aside. He was only wearing a T-shirt underneath, but in contrast to my chill, his arms were warm, so warm that I could feel the heat from his skin as we sat, not quite touching, but uncomfortably close on the small two-seater sofa.

“You’ve goose pimples all up your arms,” he said, and then, slowly, as if giving me time to move away, he put out a hand and rubbed the skin of my upper arm gently. I shivered again, but it was not with cold, and for a long moment I had an almost overwhelming urge to close my eyes and lean into him.

“Jack,” I said, at the same time as he cleared his throat, and the baby monitor on the counter let out a crackling wail.

Petra.

“I’d better go and get her.” I stood, setting the tea down on the counter, and then staggered as a sudden wash of dizziness came over me, from standing up too fast.

“Hey.” Jack stood too, putting a hand on my arm, steadying me. “Hey, are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” It was true, the moment of faintness had passed. “It’s nothing. I get low blood pressure sometimes. And I’m

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