I was too shocked to reply. For a second I simply sat there, mouth open, trying to figure out what to say.

“Hello?” Craig said, irritably. “Hellooo?” And then, beneath his breath, “Stupid cunts wi’ their fucking wrong numbers.”

And then he hung up.

I shut my mouth and walked slowly through to the kitchen, still trying to figure out what had just happened.

Plainly, whoever that number belonged to, it wasn’t Elise’s mum. Which meant . . . well it could have meant that Rhiannon had written it down wrong, except that I had texted that number and got back a confirmation, supposedly from “Cass.”

Which meant that Rhiannon had been lying to me.

Which also meant that very probably, she hadn’t been out with Elise at all. Instead, she had very likely been with Craig.

Fuck.

The tablet was lying on the kitchen island, and I picked it up and tried to compose an email to Sandra and Bill.

The problem was, I didn’t know what to begin with. There was too much too say. Should I start with Rhiannon? Or Maddie’s behavior? Or should I lead with my concerns about the attic? The noises, and the way Jack and I had broken in, and the crazy writing?

What I wanted to tell them was everything—from the dead, rotten smell that still hung in my nostrils, and the broken shards of the doll’s head in the rubbish bin, right through to Maddie’s scribbled prison-cell drawing, and my conversation with Craig.

Something is wrong, I wanted to write. No, scrap that, everything is wrong. But . . . how could I tell them about Rhiannon and Maddie without seeming like I was criticizing their parenting? Let alone, how could I say what I had seen and heard in this house without being dismissed as just another superstitious nanny? How could I expect to persuade someone who hadn’t even seen the inside of that creepy, demented room?

The subject line first then. Anything I could think of seemed either hopelessly inadequate or ridiculously dramatic, and in the end I settled on An update from Heatherbrae.

Okay. Okay. Calm and factual. That was good. Now for the body of the email.

Dear Sandra and Bill, I wrote, and then sat back and nibbled at the fraying edge of the bandage on my finger, trying to think what to put next. First of all, I should tell you that Rhiannon arrived back this morning safe and sound, but I have a few concerns about her account of her trip to Elise’s.

Okay, that was good. That was clear and factual and nonaccusatory. But then how to segue from that into

Stupid cunts wi’ their fucking wrong numbers.

Let alone from that to

we hate you

There angry

GO AWAY

We hite you

Most of all, how to explain that I would not—could not—sleep in that room again, listen to those footsteps pacing above, breathe the same air as those rotted dusty feathers.

In the end I just sat there, staring at the screen, remembering the slow creak . . . creak . . . on the boards above me, and it was only when I heard Petra’s cranky wail coming over the intercom and looked at the clock that I realized it was time to pick up Maddie and Ellie from school.

Gone to get the girls I tapped out on the messaging screen to Rhiannon, we need to talk when I get back. And then, leaving the email unsent on the tablet, I ran upstairs to change Petra and bundle her into the car.

* * *

I didn’t think of the email again until nearly 9:00 p.m. The afternoon had been a good one—Maddie and Ellie had both been delighted to see Rhiannon, and she’d been touchingly sweet with them—a far cry from the glossy, entitled private school brat she played with me. She was visibly hungover, but she played Barbies with them in the playroom for a couple of hours, ate some pizza, and then disappeared upstairs while I did battle with baths and bed and then tucked the girls in with a kiss and turned out the lights.

When I came downstairs I was gearing myself up for the promised discussion, trying to imagine what Rowan the Perfect Nanny would have done. Firm but clear. Don’t lead with sanctions and accusations, get her to talk.

But Rhiannon was waiting in the kitchen, tapping her nails on the counter, and I did a double take at what she was wearing. Full makeup, heels, miniskirt, and a midriff-baring top that showed off a pierced navel.

Oh shit.

“Um,” I began, but Rhiannon forestalled me.

“I’m going out.”

For a second I had no idea what to say. Then I pulled myself together.

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, I do.”

I smiled. I could afford to smile. It was growing dark. I had the keys to the Tesla in my pocket, and the nearest station was the best part of ten miles.

“Are you planning to walk in those heels?” I asked. But Rhiannon smiled back.

“No, I’ve got a lift coming.”

Double shit.

“Okay, look, Rhiannon, this is very funny and everything, but you do know there’s absolutely no way I can let you do that. I’ll have to call your parents. I have to tell them—” Oh fuck this, fuck accusations, I had to say something to make her realize she’d been rumbled. “I have to tell them you came home stinking of alcohol.”

I expected the words to act like a punch to the gut, but she barely reacted.

“I don’t think you should do that,” was all she said.

But I had already picked up my phone.

I hadn’t checked it since before supper, and to my surprise, there was an email icon flashing. It was from Sandra.

I pressed it, in case it was something I should know about before I spoke to her, and then blinked in puzzlement as the subject header came up.

Re: An update from Heatherbrae

What? Had I sent the email without meaning to? I had logged into my personal Gmail on the children’s tablet, the one they used for playing games, and had a horrible feeling that I had forgotten to log out. Could Petra or one of the girls have accidentally pressed send?

Panic-stricken, I opened up Sandra’s reply, expecting something along the lines of ?? What’s going on? but it was totally different.

Thanks for the update Rowan, sounds good. Glad Rhiannon had a fun time with Elise. Bill is off to Dubai tonight, and I’m at a client dinner, but do text if anything urgent and I’ll try to FaceTime the girls tomorrow. X

It didn’t make sense. At least, it didn’t until I scrolled down a little further and looked at the email I had supposedly sent, at 2:48 p.m., a good twenty minutes after I’d left to collect Maddie and Ellie.

Dear Bill and Sandra, just an update from home. All is good, Rhiannon is back safe and sound from Elise’s house, and she seems to have had a great time.

We’ve had a very nice afternoon and she’s a credit to you both. Maddie and Ellie both send love.

Rowan.

There was total silence and then I turned to Rhiannon.

“You little shit.”

“Charming,” she drawled. “Is that the kind of language they expected at Little Nippers?”

“Little—what?” How did she know where I’d worked? But then I pulled myself together, refusing to be derailed. “Look, don’t try to change the subject. This is utterly unacceptable, and stupid to boot. First of all, I know about Craig.” A look of shock flickered across Rhiannon’s face at that. She recovered herself quickly, her expression back to bored indifference almost instantly. However, I had seen it and I couldn’t stop a triumphant smile from spreading across my own face. “Oh yes, didn’t he tell you that? I rang ‘Cass.’ Obviously the first thing I’m going to do is call your mum and explain that you sent that email, and the second thing I’m going to do is tell her about this Craig person and explain that you propose waltzing out with this guy I’ve never met, in a top that barely comes to your navel, and see what she has to say on that subject.”