Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Granted, she’s a lot taller than I am and I’m guessing watching her husband fight in the league for years must’ve made her a brawler too. I’m not a fighter, preferring to keep my hands intact to play guitar or wipe tears off cheeks. But fuck… watching Sandra’s determination to get at Bowie Jane, who must be so confused and scared up in her room right now, lights a fire within me. Gone is the ice from my veins and in its place is a raging hot fury.
I scramble to my feet, ignoring the ache in my back and the throbbing in my cheek. My instinct is to leap onto her and bring her down onto the staircase. I’m both gleeful and sickened at the thought of slamming her into the carpeted stairs and rug-burning the shit out of her perfect face.
But I’m smarter than that and I reach for my best weapon. I pull out my phone and tell Sandra, “I’m calling the police right now.”
That halts her. She turns her head to look back at me, but I’m not bluffing just to get her to stop. I dial 9-1-1 and put the phone to my ear, looking up at her and willing her to reach for a moment of sanity in that fucked-up head of hers.
“Fine,” Sandra retorts, baring her teeth at me. “Go ahead and call. I’m her mother and they’re not going to have a problem with me taking her.”
Oh, they’ll totally have a problem with it, as well as the fact she’s trespassing and assaulted me, but I don’t say that to her. I’m done trying to reason.
I’m connected to a dispatcher and I quickly inform them of what’s happening, trying not to overdramatize the situation but giving enough keywords that will ensure a fast response.
The dispatcher has me stay on the line, assuring me that a police cruiser is in my area and should be here in two minutes.
Sandra looks up the stairs to Bowie Jane’s room and I growl at her, “Don’t you even think about it.” Her neck twists, hard eyes back on me. “I suggest you leave before the police get here.”
That would be best for Sandra but inside I’m hoping she doesn’t. I want them to see her on this property, violating a custody agreement and assaulting a resident of the home. I want a report on this because Foster will go apeshit and move heaven and earth to use this to secure permanent custody for Bowie Jane.
I surprise myself by how clearly I’m thinking… planning for the best resolution.
I’m stunned when Sandra huffs and stomps down the stairs. “I’m not leaving. I have a right to see my daughter and the police will agree with me on that. You’re just a nanny.”
Her heels click on the hardwood floors and I stare at her slack-jawed as she turns toward the kitchen. She sits at the table and pulls her phone from her purse. Her fingers fly over the screen and she looks so completely at ease in Foster’s home after she just scared Bowie Jane that I want to grab that perfectly blown-out blond hair and drag her out of the house by it.
Instead, I ask the dispatcher how close the cop is as I go to sit on the bottom stair, intent on maintaining a barrier between Bowie Jane and Sandra.
“She should be pulling into the driveway any moment,” she replies in a professional, no-nonsense voice that reminds me of how I talk to Bowie Jane at times to get her hustling.
In less than a minute, the doorbell rings and I hang up from the 9-1-1 call as I move to answer it. I glance back to see Sandra has risen from the table and is walking calmly our way, a serene smile on her face, as if she wasn’t just crazy pants.
The police officer is female and identifies herself as Miranda Schmidt. “What seems to be the problem?”
I open my mouth, but Sandra is at my side. “Thank God you’re here. I’m trying to visit with my daughter, having just made a long journey from Singapore, and her nanny won’t let me have access.”
That might make the cop align sympathetically with Sandra but I’m hoping she’s well versed in domestic disputes and has heard it all. She knows there are two sides to every story. Her gaze comes to me, eyebrows raised in a silent request to hear what I have to say.
“This house belongs to Foster McInnis,” I begin, and if Officer Schmidt recognizes his name, she doesn’t give it away. “He has primary custody of his daughter, Bowie Jane, who is upstairs in her room. My name is Mary Elizabeth Archer and I’m the nanny hired to watch Foster’s daughter when he’s out of state, such as he is now.” I jerk my head to the right. “Sandra showed up unannounced—”