9. The Human Shield
Chapter nine
The Human Shield
The biting November wind swept across the St. Jude playground.
Dozens of orphans rushed over the newly installed rubber turf, their shrieks and laughter bleeding together in the frigid air.
I sat on the brand-new swingset, gripping the cold metal chains through my gloves.
Naomi stood directly behind me, posing for the camera lens positioned a few yards away.
She pressed her palms against my shoulders and pushed, forcing the swing into a gentle sway.
“Are you warm enough out here?” Naomi asked.
She pitched her voice over the noise of the yard, making sure the lavalier mic clipped to her coat captured exactly how worried she sounded. She pushed me again, the metal chains letting out a rhythmic creak overhead.
“I’m fine,” I replied. “The coat blocks the worst of it.”
I dragged the heels of my boots against the rubber ground, keeping the swing from going any higher. The thick soles gripped the turf. I refused to lift my feet and let her control the motion.
Naomi leaned in, bringing her face near my ear to make sure the documentary crew got their heartwarming shot.
“Do you remember?” she asked. “We used to sit out here for hours until the streetlights came on. Dreaming about the future.”
I swallowed down the disgust. We had sat on the old, rusty version of these swings, making promises to share whatever success we found.
I meant those vows. She only ever viewed my success as a personal insult, something she needed to take from me.
I kept my posture relaxed and offered a small, nostalgic smile.
“We certainly had big plans,” I said. “You always said you were going to be famous, no matter what it took.”
She gave my shoulders another push. I braced my boots harder against the turf. She had chased that fame through failed auditions and faded acting credits, finally settling for the part of the devoted sister while sleeping with my husband.
“And look at us now,” she said, her voice dropping into a theatrical, reverent tone for the lens. “We built a beautiful life, and soon there’s going to be a new baby to share it with.”
A piercing shriek echoed across the playground as a child slid down a plastic tube.
Kids swarmed the recess yard, their boots stomping on the rubber turf.
A group of older children argued over a game of tag near the brick wall, nearly drowning out everything else.
The November wind whipped across the open space, tearing a loose strand of hair from my bun and blowing it across my face.
Unwilling to let go of the swing chains, I just shook my head to clear it from my eyes.
Across the turf, Marcus raised a hand and tapped his thick headphones.
“Cut it for a second,” Marcus said. “The background bleed is too much.”
He stepped out from behind his tripod. Unlatching the camera mount, he hoisted the rig off the stand and settled the equipment onto his right shoulder.
He adjusted the side grip, his brow furrowed in concentration.
His boots landed with a dull thud against the rubberized ground as he closed the distance to the swingset.
Naomi dropped her hands from my shoulders. She stepped back to adjust the lapels of her coat, always mindful of how her silhouette appeared on film.
“Is the wind hitting the mics?” Naomi asked. She patted her pocket, checking the square outline of the transmitter pack. “I can try shielding it with my scarf if that helps.”
“It’s not just the wind,” Marcus said.
He stopped a few feet in front of the swing. Reaching down to his belt, he checked a small digital receiver, turning a dial to adjust the audio gain. The children behind us shrieked again, chasing a rolling ball toward the chain-link fence.
“Hold on, the background noise is spiking,” Marcus said. He looked up from the receiver and pointed at us. “You two need to close the distance. Lean in towards each other, and speak directly into the mics.”
I kept my grip on the chains, letting it sway to a halt.
Marcus played the role of the frustrated videographer with practiced ease.
To Naomi, this was a legitimate production hurdle.
The screaming children and the rushing wind provided an excellent cover.
Caught up in the reality of the outdoor shoot, she never stopped to question the setup.
She viewed this as a standard stage direction, so desperate to prove her professionalism to the camera crew that she never noticed how carefully Marcus had orchestrated the shot.
Naomi stepped forward, eager to comply, crowding in behind me. The rough wool of her coat brushed against my shoulder blade. She leaned her head near mine, her floral perfume mixing with the sharp scent of the winter air.
Having her this close made my skin crawl. I stared straight ahead at the camera lens, refusing to flinch away from her.
“Of course, Marcus,” Naomi said. She placed her hands back on the chains, her knuckles resting just an inch above mine. “Should we stick with the swing, or does the motion blur the shot?”
“Keep the motion, it looks organic,” Marcus said, balancing the rig on his shoulder. “Just project your voices over the screaming kids.”
The freezing wind swept across the open playground, carrying the chaotic noise of the orphans.
I kept my boots planted on the rubber turf, my hands wrapped around the metal chains of the swing.
Marcus adjusted his footing, tracking the movement.
A small group of children raced past the swingset.
Beyond them, a figure stepped onto the edge of the recess yard.
Marcus adjusted his grip on the side handle, shifting his angle a fraction of an inch. “Hold that framing, I’ve got a walker stepping in from the left.”
I turned my head. Agnes Mills stood near the chain-link fence. She wore a thick winter jacket, clutching a wooden clipboard against her chest. She surveyed the shrieking orphans, checking her roster. She remained oblivious to the documentary production unfolding a few yards away.
Naomi spotted the caretaker. She dropped her hands from my swing chains. She leaned down, pressing her mouth against the side of my head. The wet, sticky smear of her lipstick clung to my temple. A wave of her perfume flooded my nose.
My stomach turned at the contact. I tightened my fingers around the cold metal links, gripping the steel until my knuckles strained against the thick wool of my gloves. I fought the urge to raise a hand and scrub the kiss off my skin. I kept my face perfectly still for the camera.
“Keep filming, Marcus,” Naomi said over her shoulder. “This is gold.”
She jogged away from the swingset. The dull thud of her boots echoed against the rubber surface with every step. I sat in silence, watching the woman who planned to kill me maneuver her way across the playground.
Marcus stepped forward, keeping the camera focused on Naomi’s back. Naomi intercepted the older woman near the brick wall. She threw her arms open and wrapped Agnes in a dramatic, restrictive hug. The stiff paper crinkled as Naomi trapped the clipboard between their bodies.
Agnes stiffened, her eyes widening. Marcus’s boots squeaked against the turf. Naomi squeezed the older woman tighter. She turned her shoulders, angling her chin to ensure the camera caught her profile.
She plastered a radiant, beaming smile across her face, dragging the only person who had ever given us genuine kindness during our childhood directly into her spotlight.
“Agnes!” Naomi shouted over the noise of the yard. “Come here, you have to get on camera. You’re the whole reason we turned out so well.”
Agnes shifted her weight, trying to step backward out of the frame. She gripped the edges of her clipboard, her cheeks flushing in the cold air.
“Oh goodness, I don’t need to be in a movie,” Agnes said. “You girls are the ones doing all the wonderful things.”
Naomi tightened her grip around the caretaker’s coat, refusing to let Agnes retreat from the frame.
“Nonsense. You practically raised us.” Naomi looked straight into the camera lens. “Tell them how perfectly behaved we were.”
The background chaos of the recess yard intruded on the shot. A red rubber ball bounced out from a cluster of running orphans. Smack. Smack. It hit the turf, rolling in a straight line directly toward the camera tripod.
Agnes used the distraction to step out of Naomi’s grip. She lowered her clipboard, crouching to scoop the toy off the ground. She wiped a streak of dirt off the red rubber.
“Watch out with that camera, give me a second to clear this,” Agnes said.
She tossed the ball over the heads of the nearest children. She let out a short breath. The air across the filming area stilled. Marcus kept his stance rigid, adjusting his focus ring. The unblinking red recording light stared directly at Naomi’s face.
Agnes turned back to the lens, rearranging the clipboard against her chest. She laughed—a warm, rumbling sound at the memory.
“Perfectly behaved? Naomi, you were a terror! Do you remember when you broke the chapel window with a baseball?”
Naomi’s bright smile faltered for a fraction of a second, dropping entirely before she forced the warmth back into her eyes. She waved a dismissive hand, trying to brush past the anecdote before Agnes could say anything else.
“Oh, that was ages ago, Agnes. We were just kids playing.”
Agnes didn’t notice how stiffly Naomi held herself. She shook her head, a fond smile crinkling the corners of her eyes.
“You hid in the closet, and Juniper ended up taking the blame!” Agnes said.
I sat motionless on the swing. The implication of the story settled over me. To Marcus, it sounded like a humorous memory of childhood mischief. But looking at Naomi’s stiff posture, the story snapped into focus. The betrayal I had overheard in the hallway was just the latest chapter.
The tension drained out of my fingers, and my leather gloves slipped down the metal links of the swing chains. Naomi had always treated me like a human shield, fully expecting me to take the hits for her messes.
Agnes beamed, completely missing the absolute silence that followed. “She lost her dessert privileges for a week because she wouldn’t give you up.”
Naomi tossed her head back and let out a bright, artificial laugh. The sound pierced the frigid winter air, carrying over the distant shouts of the orphans across the yard. She shifted her weight to keep the camera lens centered on her face.
“Agnes, you always tell the most dramatic version of the story,” Naomi said, waving a dismissive hand toward the lens. “I think you just liked scolding us.”
Agnes chuckled, shaking her head. “I only scolded the ones who earned it, Naomi Mercer. You two have a good afternoon. Make sure you don’t freeze out here.”
The older woman turned and walked back toward the chaotic recess yard, leaving us alone with the memory.
I loosened my grip on the swingset, lowering my hands to my lap. To Marcus and his camera, Agnes had just shared an innocent anecdote about a naughty kid. I sat there, my stomach turning as the pieces fell into place.
Naomi believed this was a touching story about my devotion to her. The worst part was, I used to believe that same lie. I used to think taking the fall for her mistakes meant I was a good friend, completely blind to how easily she’d learned to sacrifice me.
I forced a wistful smile, staring across at the woman who had always been perfectly willing to trade my safety for hers.
“Well, what are best friends for?” I asked, keeping my voice light and nostalgic for the microphone pinned to my collar. “Naomi always protected me from bullies, and I was happy to lose my dessert as long as she didn’t get a scolding.”
The bait worked. Naomi beamed, her eyes instantly shining for the camera.
“That’s right,” she agreed. She closed in, erasing the gap between us. “That’s just the type of bond we share.”
She reached out and looped her arm through mine.
Her fingers dug into the crook of my elbow, pinning my arm flat against the thick wool of my winter coat.
The way she trapped me felt suffocating.
She treated my body like a prop, steering me away from the swingset to control the framing of the shot.
I maintained my balance as she dragged me forward.
For twenty years, she used my loyalty to insulate herself from the world.
Now, she planned to use my death to steal my wealth and my unborn baby.
We walked across the recess yard toward the main brick building. The thick rubber turf squeaked under our boots. Ahead of us, Marcus hoisted the camera rig higher onto his shoulder, walking backward to keep pace as he framed the shot through the viewfinder.
“That’s great texture, ladies,” Marcus called out over the chaotic background noise of the yard. “Let’s keep walking toward the building.”
I braced my boots against the ground with every step, maintaining my facade beside the woman who planned my funeral. I smiled warmly for the lens as we walked across the playground arm-in-arm, staring straight into the unblinking red light of the camera.