Page 13 of Denial
This woman doesn’t so much as flinch as she ticks off her fingers. “I’m an expert in children.”
“You were arrested this afternoon.”
“That was unrelated to the children.”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
“I passed my child development class with an Aplus.”
“What, like a decade ago?”
She crosses her arms. “Some things are hard to forget. I’ll have you know I’m very well loved by the four-to-seven crowd.”
Nellie tugs on Alice’s arm. “I’m eight,” she whispers loudly.
Alice crouches down to Nellie’s level. “That’s perfect. Eight-year-olds are actually my specialty.”
“They are?” Nellie’s dark eyes grow round.
“Absolutely. They’re old enough to know princesses don’t need a prince to save them. Do you still like princesses?”
Nellie nods solemnly, soaking in every word. “Miss Cathy at the diner said we needed a nanny too.”
Great. This woman has been here all of five minutes and already won over my kid.
Alice straightens. “Four to eight,” she amends.
How is it that she continues to mock me—this time in front of my family? I’m pretty sure steam might be billowing from my nostrils.
Mom crowds my space and places her palm on my arm. “She’s well qualified, honey.”
Her soft tone gives me pause. I look down into her hazel eyes, taking in the deep creases fanning from the edges. A tendril of soft gray drapes loosely across them. This woman has selflessly helped me throughout Nellie’s childhood, before and after Nellie’s mom, Jolene, died. She guided me through my own. If she went behind my back to arrange help, she must be struggling but is too damn stubborn to say so.
My shoulders rise with a cleansing breath. “What else?”
“I have a love for chalk drawings and paint, and I love to play board games.”
“Those aren’t qualifications. What about CPR? First aid?”
“I’ll be trained by my first day,” she says brightly.
“And when is that exactly?”
She claps her hands together. “Monday!”
My molars snap together. “Let me guess. A weekend certification class down at the community center?”
“How convenient, right?” She bounces her brows.
Too convenient. A newcomer doesn’t just waltz into town and land an unpublished job inside a police officer’s house. Not without help.
Someone set me up. Someone close.
“Who’s the mastermind behind this plan?” I narrow my gaze at Mom at my side. “I know it wasn’t you.”
The back of her hand wallops my chest. “It was partially me. I love you and Nellie-Jo both dearly, but I’m getting old, son. I can’t stay up that late anymore. Not unless I’m gambling."
“You should have said something,” I murmur between us.
