Page 37 of Cruel Offer
“I’ll be right back,” I tell my students, doing my best not to break into a run as I leave the studio to go deadbolt the front door.
But as I dash across the lobby toward the door, it starts to open and a voice calls out, “Piper-Lily Barclay! What is the nature of your relationship with Nate Windemere? Does he know about your father’s crimes?”
I slam into the door and engage the vertical bolt, the click of the lock loud in my ears.
Stunned, I go completely still, unsure what to do. I’m dizzy with anxiety. There’s no doubt in my mind now: that man came here for me.
Spinning back to the window, I find him pressed against the glass, continuing to take photos of me from outside. Glancing over to the front stoop, I see another man standing outside with a video camera. Two more linger on the sidewalk, cameras around their necks.
I turn around and nearly run into Tawnee, one of the parents. She looks at me, wide eyed, her cell phone in her hand.
“What’s going on? Who are those men? Should I call the police?”
My eyes burn with angry tears. “I’m sorry. That won’t be necessary. I’ll take care of it.”
The mother pushes past me and hurries into the studio, coming back a moment later tugging her daughter by the arm.
“Unlock the door, please. We’re leaving.”
Something inside me shrivels and I know that I’ve lostanother student. Reluctantly, I unlock the door. The moment it opens, the man is there, barking questions at me as the poor mother and daughter scurry past him and rush away.
“Piper-Lily, how long have you been seeing Nathaniel Windemere? How does his family feel about your father’s crimes? Are you borrowing money from the Windemeres?”
That little piece inside me shrivels more and more, getting smaller and more blackened until I feel like I might throw up. This is bad. Really bad.
“Get out of here!” I hiss. “There are children here. How dare you!”
I slam the door and lock it again, then hurry to the window and drop the shade. How many photos did they get in the interim? Oh God, and how many of the children got caught in those photos? I’m going to have to explain this to the parents…that their children’s faces might show up on a tabloid site somewhere.
Back in the studio, I try to regain my composure. The kids stare at me with innocent concern.
“Ms. Barclay? Who was that man?”
“I’m sorry, class. He had no business being here. It’s okay. Let’s get back to practice.”
“Why was he asking you questions?”
Forcing a smile, I say, “I’m going to restart the music, okay? Places, please.”
I’ve found that redirecting them is easier if I don’t engage with every question or comment, which leads to too many tangents. We don’t have time for that. Nor do I have the mental capacity for their interrogations and chit-chat right now.
God. I can’t believe that just happened. My throat feels dry and it’s hard to get a decent string of thoughts together, but I manage to make it halfway through the practice session without falling apart. Every little sound makes me jump, though, as if the men are back and trying to find a way in. The children’s parents will be arriving soon for pickup. I’m going to have to unlock the door.
Holding back the nausea, barely, I make it through the rest of the class and unlock the door just as the first parent arrives. Bracing myself for another onslaught of cameras and questions, I nearly cry in relief when there isn’t one.
One by one, the kids leave, most of them eagerly telling their parents all about the clown with the camera outside the window. Shit. I’m so screwed.
Pulling a long breath through my nose, I focus on calming myself as I tidy up the studio and wipe down the surfaces with disinfectant. The routine helps enough that my chest stops squeezing and the lump dissolves in my throat.
Until the door cracks open and the studio director peeks her head in.
My heart sinks the moment my eyes land on her face. She tries to cover a tight expression with a warm smile, but I see what’s lurking underneath.
“Can we meet in my office, Piper?”
“Of course.”
I know what she’s going to say as I follow her down the hall. It’s clearly written on her face when I sit across from her at the desk, and she folds her hands on the glossy surface. My lips part with the words I want to say, anapology and a promise that it won’t happen again, but she beats me to it.
