One Less Problem Without You (5 page)

“What?” Lena was distracted, trying to clean the plates, but the baby's wailing turned her attention to the dining room. “What happened?”

“That little shit just pinched her.”

“What, the baby?”

Jessica was instantly incensed. “Yes, that's why she's crying. He thought no one was looking, and I watched him do it! Jesus, she's not having food allergies or any other reaction. She's being abused by that kid!” She shook her head and tried to resist the urge to go in and beat the crap out of him in front of his parents. “Son of a bitch.”

“She's not a bitch, she's lovely.”

As if on cue, Ingrid Tiesman went to little Prinny and swooped her into her arms. The child settled quickly, but Jessica could see the angry red spot as if it were throbbing.

Then, almost worse, she saw the little smile on Leif's face.

It was disgusting.

“Aren't you supposed to be clearing the dishes?” Lena asked. “And not gawking and judging?”

“I don't wanna go anywhere near the kid.”

“It's your
job
. And
I
can't finish
my
job until you bring them in. So get on it.”

“In a
minute
.” She watched the scene before her.

Ingrid took Prinny toward the stairs, stopping, for a moment, to let her husband give the baby a kiss. She had quieted by then; the pleasant little thing was even smiling, despite the fact that tears still rested on her cheeks. She always rallied, that one. Such a good, easy baby. Such a contrast to her brother.

“Do you want me to take her up to bed?” the boy asked, approaching his stepmother and sister. Jessica couldn't tell if the gleam she saw in his eyes was real or just something she imagined because she expected it.

And the poor baby reached for him! Actually
reached for him
! Her tormentor, yet her little eyes lit up when she saw him, like he was a movie star or something. It was horrible.

“I've got to stop this.” Jessica started for the dining room, but Lena stopped her.

“That is
not
your job.”

“Fuck my job.” Jessica bustled into the room. “Leif, did you drop something?”

“No.” He was reaching for Prinny, but it didn't look like Ingrid was going to give her up. Thank goodness. Ingrid was no dink; she knew her stepson was a monster. No one could miss it, for Pete's sake! He was mean as a snake, through and through.

“I thought I saw something glinting under your seat,” Jessica went on, searching frantically for anything that might explain it. There was nothing, but at least she'd interrupted whatever his intentions were toward his poor little sister.

It wasn't only what he'd just done; that was icing on the proverbial cake. A cake he would happily have put snakes, snails, and puppy dog tails—along with a good measure of snot—into. In fact, he
had
put toothpaste in the middle of select Oreos in a package; that had been a delightful discovery. And the time he'd stolen the neighbor's cat and kept it in a plastic grocery bag for two days before being discovered? Even though that could have ended much worse, Jessica was pretty sure the cat left with a haunted look it hadn't had before.

She'd heard tell of other things he did in the neighborhood—cruelty to small animals, mostly—though she'd never been able to catch him.
She
believed the stories of other children, but it wasn't enough to convince the parents to get him to a psychiatrist.

People saw what they wanted to see, but even more than that, people managed to
not see
what they really
didn't
want to see. And while it seemed like Mrs. Tiesman might have some awareness that things weren't right with the kid, she was very kind and supported her husband in his determined efforts to make this family strong and happy.

Jessica was one hundred percent sure that was never going to happen.

“So I thought you might have dropped something you needed,” Jessica went on, finishing lamely.

He turned and glared at her. “I'm going to put my
sister
to
bed
.” He looked back at the baby. “Come on, Prinny Princess,” he said in a voice dripping with sarcasm.

Jessica looked at Mrs. Tiesman with a tight smile.

Ingrid Tiesman seemed to get it. “It's all right, Leif. I need to change her anyway. You know how you feel about that.”

Everyone who had seen—and especially those who'd had to
clean—
the soiled diapers he'd taken out of the Diaper Genie and smashed to the wall when they first brought Prinny home knew how he felt about that.

Ingrid ruffled his hair and swept out of the room, Prinny safely in her arms.

She didn't see—as Jessica had—the look of sheer, unadulterated hatred he had shot at them as they left.

“Listen to me,” Jessica hissed in his ear. “I saw what you did, you little shit. You pinched Prinny and made her cry. You've been doing that all along, all over her body, making your poor parents mad with worry over what is wrong with her.”

“They're not
my parents
.” He gave her a cold look, then opened his mouth and began to wail a fake cry, but she instinctively slapped her hand over his mouth.

“Do it and you will be sorry.” Her anger was such that it took him aback. She could see the fear flicker momentarily through his eyes. “I
swear
it.” She took her hand off his mouth slowly, ready to clap it back if he made one peep.

A moment passed in which he leveled that flinty gaze on her.

A gaze, she knew, that would probably someday make doomed girls swoon. Doomed girls loved assholes, and this kid was going to be the king of them.

“You
bitch,
” he said, then literally spat in her face.

She slapped him, hard, a reflex she couldn't stop.

And with that one move, she knew her job was over. He was sure to tell, and even if he didn't, she'd have to because she was
not
going to keep secrets in conjunction with this little heathen. There was just no way.

So she went up to her room to pack her things. He was probably reporting on her right now, showing his red skin and crying his icy blue eyes out. She was going to be kicked out quickly and soundly.

But she wanted to warn Ingrid Tiesman what she was dealing with. She wanted to tell her about Leif pinching Prinny, and hurting animals, and even the part about messing with the food. She
assumed
it was only toothpaste in the Oreos, but it wasn't like she'd eaten a bunch to be sure. That could have masked any number of other things, and there was not one thing she'd put past Leif Tiesman.

Eleven years old and she wouldn't put it past him to actually try to kill someone.

But what authority did she have to say anything? She was a maid. Not a childcare expert, not the nanny; she wasn't supposed to have anything to do with the children at all. She was just the busybody who had something to say about something that was none of her business.

Honestly, now that Jessica was thinking about this, even if she wasn't fired, she'd be afraid to stay in the house one more night. She'd unleashed something in the boy, and he knew that
she
knew it was out there. She wasn't safe anywhere near him.

She took out the spiral notebook she used as a diary and began to write her letter of resignation.

 

CHAPTER FOUR

Chelsea

Don't move a muscle.
If ever she were to be held up at gunpoint and heard these words uttered behind her while the cold, hard mouth of a gun wedged into the nape of her neck, she would at least earn a gold star—or her life—for following directions.

If she were ever on a reality show and the challenge was to cover her own body in honey and bees and stand stock-still no matter how many times she was stung, she would win. She hated those gross-out shows, but she was certain she would have the mental concentration and detachment to win that challenge.

If she ever had a kid, and he tried to goad her by pretending he was going to shove a finger up her nose, then she'd gain points from onlooking moms who admired her patience and stillness in the face of annoyance as she did not move a muscle, even if the sticky, Jolly Rancher–covered digit made its way past her nostril.

So now, if she ever got famous—no,
when, when
she got famous—she'd be able to tell interviewers about that laugh-riot era in her twenties when she'd picked up extra cash (essential cash, really, nothing “extra” about it) by working, among other less-than-glamorous things, as a living statue at Union Station.

The job was fine. Easy, compared to many. Certainly compared to manual labor. If you said to a plumber or a trashman that you thought your job was hard, and then admitted that your one requirement was to stand still and let people pose with you as if you were Snow White in Disneyland (a job she'd practically kill for at this point), you'd sound like a spoiled idiot.

As if you didn't already.

One of the biggest problems, and one she never remembered to adjust for, was when she had set herself facing one way, doing a pose facing away from the clock, then realizing that her shift must soon be up. Because inevitably, she'd be facing anywhere but within peripheral view of the clock, and statues trying to look at the wristwatches of passersby were creepy, not cool.

“Mom! Mom! Look, I think that statue just moved!”

Dammit
. She'd scrolled her eyes to the left to try to possibly see at least the little hand on the clock.

“No, I don't think so,” said the mom, in that
Blues Clues
way that means you are absolutely right and urges you to investigate further. “A
statue,
Hank?”

Hank?
Hank
for a six-year-old? That's the name of a weirdly tall and whip-thin farmer guy who
just wants to drink his beer and have some goldang quiet
.

This poor little man. Hank.

“I saw it! I did! It's
magical
!”

“Oh, I don't know. Magic? Or a trick?” The mother laughed uncomfortably. She was probably starting to think it was time to have the Talk about Santa Claus, so a moving statue was one thing, but a
magical
one was quite another.

She should come to the store.
That
magic would probably
really
freak her out.

“Can we take it home?” Hank was too old to ask something like that. Was he accustomed to seeing large objects in public places and thinking he could just grab them?

“Not today. But why don't I take your picture with the statue?” And something about the way the mother suggested it made Chelsea know—she just
knew
—that tonight, when she
really
needed to get out on time, Mom was going to take her damn time trying to figure out the camera settings on her phone, then try to get the perfect shot. It was like waiting in line for the one working bathroom stall in a bar behind someone with a wooden leg, a catheter, and no real hurry to get out of your way.

Hank slowed down in his approach to her, suddenly wary. He brought his hands together and looked up at her, his half-smile frozen.

She let her eyes go unfocused, so they'd be less likely to catch on movement, and waited until his mom was gazing down at her phone to get the camera open.

Then she looked down at Hank and winked.

He gave a tiny squeal.

She had him! He was charmed. She could
totally
be Snow White (or Elsa or Cinderella or Tinker Bell) in a Disney park. She'd charmed a child, the toughest audience there was.

“Mom!”
Hank tugged on his mother's arm. “He did it again!”

He?

Chelsea sighed as undetectably as she could. Forget the charm. She'd probably just scared him. Her mammoth, white-painted self had scared a child. She hated getting this Grecian woman costume. She'd always suspected she looked less like an Olympia and more like cartoon Aladdin after he became a sultan, and Hank's reaction just proved it.

This would
not
be a hot portfolio picture.

“That's fun, huh?” The mother circumnavigated the area, then crouched down like a tourist pretending to be a real photographer.

Both of them were waiting for her to move again. The trick was to wait until just after they decided she wasn't
going
to.

It took a frustratingly long time, particularly since she had to leave. She had to get to the shop. She had appointments lined up, and they paid better than this gig, though they weren't likely to get her on Broadway anytime soon.

Prinny wouldn't say anything bitchy if she was late—that wasn't her style—but she'd let out a breath that sounded like that yoga breathing technique, Ujjayi Pranayama. Except way less relaxed, and way more irritated.

Just as Hank started to walk back to his mom, smile almost entirely faded, Chelsea shifted her arms to a Superman stance and spun herself to face the clock. Four fifty-five. She had an hour to get undressed, redressed, and on the road to the shop.

“Mom!”

“I've got it!” The camera started clicking its little digital click sound as Hank maneuvered himself in front of Chelsea.

She'd wait for them to finish and head off—didn't they have somewhere to be? This was a train station, for God's sake, not a sunny park on a Saturday. It took all of about fifteen minutes to see everything there, and that included a jaunt into The Body Shop for emergency hand sanitizer (something Chelsea purchased frequently in this place).

It took them a few more minutes of examining the marble floors—Hank surreptitiously looking back at Chelsea every few seconds to see if she'd moved again—but they finally left.