—
Returning to her desk, Nikki checked her phone and messages and emails, and dug into overdue paperwork. She heard Angelo leave, but didn’t look up as he stomped past, slamming out the door.
After a while, Pasquale pulled up a chair and chatted, discussing his family’s plans for Christmas, and his wife’s online business selling handmade lace. It was a quiet morning, and they left the office for a long coffee break at the outdoor café before heading back to work.
—
The morning stretched on, and neither Sonia nor Emilio called. Nikki, who expected to continue supporting their investigation, vacillated between disappointment and relief. Despite her defiant words to her father, she had ambivalent feelings about assisting the police in this particular case.
Before this past summer, before the Markham case and the investigation with Durant, she trusted her instincts and capability. Whenthe world was ugly or unfair, when everyone else was losing their minds, she kept a clear head. But things had changed. Gone was the clarity, the calm. In its place, rooted like a parasite, was a persistent red glow of rage. Despite her efforts to get her emotions under control, the fury was growing—so intense, so close to the surface, it could erupt without warning. Yesterday, her anger towards Fiona Lake had become such an obvious liability that Sonia, for all her tolerance, had taken note. Nikki was ashamed to have lost control like that. Worse, she didn’t trust herself to be able to stop it next time.
—
Nikki turned next to researching Claire Sexton, whose online presence was far less prolific than Monica’s and Kami’s had been. Her Instagram account consisted mostly of artistic scenery shots, or a grey cat named Mister Rochester. There were a handful of pictures of Claire herself: early twenties, a baby fullness to her cheeks and lips, smooth brown skin, and short hair in tight, springy coils. Her gaze was always turned away from the camera—so Nikki didn’t have a sense of her eyes, only the shield of her long lashes.
After some searching, Nikki found a short video interview of Claire on the London-based Albion Nanny Agency website.
—
“Tell us a little about yourself and what made you decide to become a nanny,” a woman off-screen said.
Claire’s gaze flickered upwards only briefly, followed by a shy and awkward smile.
“Right,” she said, and took a deep breath. “So, ever since I was a little girl, I’ve had this sort of…well, massive love for kids. I reckon I’ve never properly grown up myself, you know? I did a Level Three diploma in early years development, then moved to London. I was proper lucky, and found this amazing family to work for. And that’s how my nanny career got started. I’ve moved on from that family, and now I’m with another lovely family.”
Her words were slow but passionate. When she finished, she looked up at the interviewer, who said, “That was perfect,” and Claire smiled fully, eyes gleaming.
Nikki was struck by the girl’s innocence; so young and hopeful, her sweetness giving a bizarre contrast to Fiona Lake’s characterization of the nanny as a “sneaky little cunt.”
The interviewer continued. “What would you say to someone who was thinking about being a nanny?”
“Get ready for a ride…it’s tough and incredible, yeah? You’ve got to stay strong, like, really embrace all the learning bits, ’cause there’s a lot. And remember, like every single day, you’ve got this chance to make a proper difference in a kid’s life!”
The video clip ended. Nikki copied and pasted the interview link in an email to Sonia.
—
The phone rang. It was Nikki’s father.
“I’ve been speaking with Fons. You remember Fons, don’t you? The butcher?”
It took a moment for Nikki’s brain to latch onto the right gear. She vaguely remembered Fons De Luise—her father’s friend. When she was little, he’d slip her a twisted paper of mortadella pieces while gossiping with her father.
“His shop is near Chiesa del Gesù Nuovo,” Raoul continued. “He saw a man sprint past. Then, a second man, also running.”
“Tuesday night?” Nikki asked. “Are you talking about the murder?”
“Exactly! Fons thinks they might have been the murderer and his accomplice.”
“Or two guys trying to get out of the rain,” she said.
He made a noise that could have been a grunt. “Perhaps. But he said they were running hard.”
Nikki exhaled. “Okay. But after the murder, I’m sure plenty of people were running away.”
“It happened before that.”
She frowned. “Two men sounds premeditated. You thought this was a crime of passion.”
