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“There, there,”Lavi whispers.
A night-light by the bathroom door casts a murky yellow glow over the room. It’s the first time I’ve seen Lavi without the ridiculous thick-framed glasses she wears.
I watch as she strokes my wife’s hair.
“Rock-a-bye baby, on the treetop,” she whisper-sings. “When the wind blows, the cradle will rock. When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall, and down will come baby, cradle and all.”
She smiles down at Nina.
“Everything is going to be okay, Mrs. Carrington.”
I watch as Lavi kisses my wife’s cheek, then curls into a ball next to her and falls fast asleep.
9
Lavinia
Iawake to the doorbell.
ThatdamnJames Bond doorbell.
Slowly, I push away from Nina, who luckily has not been awakened by the punchy tune. I edge off the bed and slide on my glasses. It is a quarter past midnight. Who would be visiting the Carrington residence at this time of night?
The doorbell rings again.
“Dammit,” I mutter, spinning on my heel and hurrying out of the room.
If Tristan is responsible for responding to visitors, he does a terrible job of it.
I jog down the staircase wearing an oversize T-shirt, jersey shorts, and mismatched socks, my usual night clothes. My hair is tangled and frizzy, and I probably look like a gremlin.
The outside security lights illuminate the front porch where a silhouette paces back and forth.
I am unlocking the third lock on the door when the bell rings again. I yank open the door, biting back a hundred curse words.
“Who the hell are you?” the woman barks, blinking wildly, obviously shocked—and disgusted—that it is I who opened the Carringtons’ front door. “And what the fuck is wrong with your eyes?”
I jerk back my chin. I thought I’d left all the assholes back in LA.
“My name is Lavi.” I respond calmly, although what I really want to do is punch the woman in her little button nose. “I work here, and I was born with different-colored eyes. Who the hell are you?”
The woman is beautiful. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. Unlike Nina and Mariana, this one is about half their size—and mine, for that matter. A pint-size beauty, no more than five feet tall, with wild, curly blond hair, and an aged face frozen with injectables. She carries a large Louis Vuitton duffel bag. The iconic print matches the belt she has cinched around her waist. On her feet are a bejeweled pair of cowboy boots. I hate her already.
“What do you mean, you workhere?” She wags her long French-tipped nails into the air like a conductor.
It is then that I realize that the woman is inebriated. She repeats the question twice more, each time blowing the putrid scent of wine into my face.
“Can I help you with something?” I cut in, seconds from slamming the door in her face.
“No,youabsolutely cannot help me.” The woman barges past me.
I grab her arm. “Hey.”
She spins around and raises her hand to slap me. My entire body braces for the blow.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.”
Tristan sprints across the foyer. He is fully dressed in jeans and a dress shirt, despite the fact that it is past midnight.
