the little man said. “I’m the family’s chauffeur. And I must apologize to you as well as offering a welcome, for apparently I left you waiting at the train station last night. I’m very sorry that you had to take a taxi.”
“It’s okay,” Daphne said.
These two creeped her out. They stood on either side of her, far too close. She felt as if they were pinning her between them, She clutched Christopher’s academic files tightly to her breasts, almost in protection.
“I cannot understand how I could have made such an error. Boris and I usually have the same night off, when we visit my sister Hulga over in Bangor. I swear that I looked at my logbook yesterday morning and saw nothing scheduled for last night. But subsequently Mr. Witherspoon showed me that indeed there was something written there. It was instructions to pick you up at the station. It was in Mrs. Witherspoon’s handwriting, and she told me she wrote it there two days ago. So somehow I must have looked at the page wrong, or perhaps I looked at another page. My deepest apologies.”
“It’s really okay,” Daphne said again.
“I just hope it doesn’t keep us from being friends,” the little man said, smiling up at her. His fat cheeks dimpled, and he revealed a set of yellow, pointy teeth. Daphne recoiled.
“No, please, don’t worry about it,” she said, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to start preparing Christopher’s lessons.”
The two strange men backed away and Daphne hurried down the corridor to the study. Inside the room, she spread the files onto the large table and began sorting them. She tried to keep her mind on the job at hand, but a thought had begun to trouble her. She supposed it had come into her mind when Mr. Witherspoon asked her about Mother Angela. He’d wanted to know if Mother had been good to her. And Daphne said yes, oh yes, she had been very good to her.
But now she couldn’t help but wonder.
Had Mother Angela known she was sending Daphne to a house that had been the site of grisly murders some twenty-five years earlier?
Not that it mattered, really. Mother had likely checked out Mr. Witherspoon to make sure he was who he said he was. The school benefactor, whoever he or she was, no doubt assured her that Witherswood would be a fine place for Daphne to live. But did no one raise the issue of the murders? If Christopher had found information on the killings so easily on the Internet, had no one at Our Lady done so as well?
And even if that wouldn’t have been enough to stop them from sending Daphne here, why wouldn’t Mother have warned her—prepared her—for what she was about to discover?
Maybe Mother didn’t know. Maybe the benefactor hadn’t told her.
Daphne suddenly felt the need to talk with Mother Angela. But she had no cell phone. That was something Our Lady had not provided. Maybe Ashlee would let her use hers at some point.
Flipping open the first of the files—mathematics—Daphne began to make some notes. She spent more than an hour doing this, finally getting lost in her work, thankfully forgetting about dead waitresses and murderous clowns and strange men with pointy yellow teeth. For the better part of an hour she was back to being just a teacher, the profession she’d wanted to pursue ever since she was a young girl. She’d imagined herself teaching a class of children—third or fourth or fifth grade—not just one emotionally disturbed boy. But she would do the very best job she could.
She heard the deep chime of the grandfather clock from the foyer, twelve gongs signaling noon. She lifted her head and glanced out the windows looking toward the cliffs. In the distance she could see Ben returning from his ride, galloping across the golden field toward the stables, which were beyond her view. She smiled. She was glad for Ben and for Ashlee. She felt she could trust them, that she could talk to them. The rest of the house, she wasn’t so sure about. Mr. Witherspoon was a good
“It’s okay,” Daphne said.
These two creeped her out. They stood on either side of her, far too close. She felt as if they were pinning her between them, She clutched Christopher’s academic files tightly to her breasts, almost in protection.
“I cannot understand how I could have made such an error. Boris and I usually have the same night off, when we visit my sister Hulga over in Bangor. I swear that I looked at my logbook yesterday morning and saw nothing scheduled for last night. But subsequently Mr. Witherspoon showed me that indeed there was something written there. It was instructions to pick you up at the station. It was in Mrs. Witherspoon’s handwriting, and she told me she wrote it there two days ago. So somehow I must have looked at the page wrong, or perhaps I looked at another page. My deepest apologies.”
“It’s really okay,” Daphne said again.
“I just hope it doesn’t keep us from being friends,” the little man said, smiling up at her. His fat cheeks dimpled, and he revealed a set of yellow, pointy teeth. Daphne recoiled.
“No, please, don’t worry about it,” she said, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to start preparing Christopher’s lessons.”
The two strange men backed away and Daphne hurried down the corridor to the study. Inside the room, she spread the files onto the large table and began sorting them. She tried to keep her mind on the job at hand, but a thought had begun to trouble her. She supposed it had come into her mind when Mr. Witherspoon asked her about Mother Angela. He’d wanted to know if Mother had been good to her. And Daphne said yes, oh yes, she had been very good to her.
But now she couldn’t help but wonder.
Had Mother Angela known she was sending Daphne to a house that had been the site of grisly murders some twenty-five years earlier?
Not that it mattered, really. Mother had likely checked out Mr. Witherspoon to make sure he was who he said he was. The school benefactor, whoever he or she was, no doubt assured her that Witherswood would be a fine place for Daphne to live. But did no one raise the issue of the murders? If Christopher had found information on the killings so easily on the Internet, had no one at Our Lady done so as well?
And even if that wouldn’t have been enough to stop them from sending Daphne here, why wouldn’t Mother have warned her—prepared her—for what she was about to discover?
Maybe Mother didn’t know. Maybe the benefactor hadn’t told her.
Daphne suddenly felt the need to talk with Mother Angela. But she had no cell phone. That was something Our Lady had not provided. Maybe Ashlee would let her use hers at some point.
Flipping open the first of the files—mathematics—Daphne began to make some notes. She spent more than an hour doing this, finally getting lost in her work, thankfully forgetting about dead waitresses and murderous clowns and strange men with pointy yellow teeth. For the better part of an hour she was back to being just a teacher, the profession she’d wanted to pursue ever since she was a young girl. She’d imagined herself teaching a class of children—third or fourth or fifth grade—not just one emotionally disturbed boy. But she would do the very best job she could.
She heard the deep chime of the grandfather clock from the foyer, twelve gongs signaling noon. She lifted her head and glanced out the windows looking toward the cliffs. In the distance she could see Ben returning from his ride, galloping across the golden field toward the stables, which were beyond her view. She smiled. She was glad for Ben and for Ashlee. She felt she could trust them, that she could talk to them. The rest of the house, she wasn’t so sure about. Mr. Witherspoon was a good
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