Chapter 33
I part my curtain an inch. Outside, Roxanne’s motion sensor light flickers on.
A man stands at her front door. Tall, dark hair, broad shoulders.
From the look of him—jeans, fitted jumper, tattoo peeking above the collar—he’s one of Roxanne’s gentleman callers.
A late-night delivery, if you will. A booty call.
Shamelessly, I squint through the darkness for a better look.
The man’s attractive, in a brooding, brothel-door kind of way.
Roxanne probably summoned him on one of those apps the young people use.
She probably entered in his measurements and he appeared like magic.
Tap, tap, and he arrives at your doorstep. Like pizza. Or syphilis.
Across the street, Joan’s nose is pressed to her window. Nosy old bat. I can’t blame her. We take our entertainment where we can get it. If Daphne were here, she’d be making popcorn.
He pounds again. Still no answer. She’s certainly making him wait. I’ll say this—it’s bold, inviting a man over while your child sleeps in the next room. But I suppose single mothers take their chances when they can. Frankly, I’d have chosen a good night’s sleep.
I’m drawing the curtain when a hallway light clicks on. Ah, she’s letting him in. Showtime.
“So, you are home!” the man yells. His voice cracks the silence like a whip. “Get. Out. Here. Now.”
Oh dear. Not a booty call, then.
I make eyes at Joan who stares back blankly.
Peter’s house is in darkness, of course.
I wonder if I should call him. Call me old-fashioned, but it feels to me like the kind of thing that a man should take care of.
I may be progressive for my age, but since women still have to carry the burden of everything else, the least men can do is take out the trash and deal with late-night male visitors!
But Peter’s house remains in darkness. Probably dosed up on knockoff sleeping pills from Aldi.
I’ll call the police, I decide. Women can do that, I suppose.
They may be the least responsive unit in Victoria, but they might make haste if they learn a man is staking out a house with a child in residence.
But just as I’m about to withdraw from the window in search of my phone, Roxanne’s front door opens and my stomach drops like a stone.
There, in a pair of pale blue shortie pajamas, holding a small yellow comforter blanket, is Persephone.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
I grab my dressing gown on my way out the door.
Nugget, who’d been asleep on the hallway floorboards, scampers after me.
Perhaps for once, the little mongrel will be of some use?
As I charge across the cobblestones, I notice the faces of Mr. and Mrs. Nguyens in their front window. Just watching. Thanks, neighbors.
“Where is your mother?” I hear the man ask Persephone.
She blinks into the light, curls wild around her head like a halo. It’s the first time I’ve seen her look small.
“Who are you?” she says, before spotting me over his shoulder. “Elsa!”
“Hello, child,” I manage. My voice shakes, but I’ll blame that on old age.
The man turns. He looks familiar. Of course he does. It’s the bloody Italian Stallion.
“I remember you,” he says, eyeing my bare feet, nightie, and the dog like I’m the lunatic.
“You’ll let me past,” I say crisply. “I’m the babysitter. I need to be inside.”
“Then why are you out here?”
“I live across the lane,” I improvise. “Popped home for my dressing gown. You let me past.”
When he doesn’t budge, I weigh my options. Go home and call the cops, or stay and risk whatever he’s planning. I don’t love either.
“Sir,” I say. “In case you haven’t noticed, every window on this lane has a nose pressed to it. Joan’s probably already called the police. She calls them if a bin is put out early. We’re the most-policed street in Bayside, thanks to her.”
He glances from window to window—to Joan, to the Nguyens. Still nothing from Peter. I’ll let him have it tomorrow. And then, blessedly, a siren wails in the distance. Could be a fire truck, a garbage truck, or the bloody ice-cream van—but it’s enough. The man steps forward and peers down the lane.
I don’t waste any time. I surge forward, grab Persephone’s arm, and drag her inside. Nugget makes it inside a second before the door slams shut. Immediately Persephone throws her arms around me and starts to cry. And damn it, I do too. Just a little.