Twenty-Three: Pierce

TWENTY-THREE

PIERCE

S ubject: URGENT. OLIVIA.

Mr. Dawson,

I am sending this email because my secretary could not reach you on your phone.

We need you to pick up Olivia from school as soon as possible.

She’s facing a severe disciplinary suspension.

Thank you,

Headmaster Helen

I couldn’t afford to miss this afternoon’s meeting with the Jets head coach, so I called Harlow.

No answer.

I called her again.

Nothing.

Too impatient to wait for a callback, I tapped into the penthouse's new security system and selected the kitchen.

Harlow was standing near the oven barefoot, wearing another braless apron and shorts. The twins behind her were eating something yellow.

I called the phone near the window, and she immediately answered.

“Yes?”

“There’s something wrong with Olivia at school,” I said. “I need you to handle it.”

“Is she sick?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “She looked fine this morning.”

“She did.” She sucked whipped cream off her finger.

I didn’t need to watch her on the security camera anymore, but I couldn’t help myself.

“Hello? Are you still there?”

“Yes.” I cleared my throat. “I’ve donated quite a bit of money to this school, and the headmaster did me a huge favor by letting her attend. Tell her I’ll handle whatever the problem is at home.”

“What if it’s something simple I can handle?”

“Can you please, for once, follow my directions to the letter?” I rolled my eyes. “I’ve let the fucking disposable diapers slip, but I’m not allowing anything else.”

“You knew about those?” She gasped. “They’re always wearing the cloth diapers when you get home.”

“Of course, I knew. It’s hard not to notice when—” I stopped talking.

She tossed off her apron, unknowingly giving me a view of her breasts, sentencing me to a long night of cold showers.

“Go pick up my niece, Miss Hawthorne.” I logged out of the security system. “Thank you.”