TWENTY

Come morning, I’m focused.

The gray clouds offer some shade while I take a broom to the patio, sweeping away the dirt the kids and I have kicked up in the last hour. I’m balancing au pair duties and reviewing everything Aaron and I have learned over the last few weeks. And I’m doing a great fucking job, thank you very much.

The patio’s almost clean when my phone vibrates in my pocket. Since nobody’s speaking to me right now, it’s probably Aaron calling on WhatsApp. I discreetly pull out the phone to text him back. We’ll chat later; I need his brainpower if we’re going to save Simone from Ian.

But it’s not Aaron.

Unsaved number: 876 area code.

Could be one of the nannies we spoke to weeks back. Maybe they have more information or finally want to talk. Some details about how Ian used to behave could help me convince the rest of the Young Birds. I answer.

“Hello. This is Lloyd Jones, senior staff reporter for the Gleaner. Is this Miss… Carina Carter?”

The Gleaner? That’s like Jamaica’s main newspaper. Why would they be reaching out to me? Do I lie to the press?

No, if he’s a senior reporter, he’s likely well-researched. If I lied, he’d probably know. I don’t need that attention.

“Yes. This is her.”

“And are you the current au pair for the Hall family?”

“Yes.”

“Good, good, thank you. I wasn’t sure if I had nailed down the right person. Cultural CareScapes couldn’t provide a good contact number.”

My heart rattles in my rib cage. I step away from the kids as they attempt to play hopscotch in the grass. Even breaths, slow breaths. But I’m choking. Did the reporter call the agency, then? Ask about me? Tip them off?

“Would you like to make a statement?”

“Excuse me?”

“About the Honorable Ian Hall? Would you like to make a statement regarding the latest allegations?”

Shit. Something’s going on. And it has to be terrible. Especially if the media is calling me, some random babysitter with a fancier title. If I say anything, it’ll be used against me.

So I hang up.

It’s rude, and that’s the point. I consider blocking the number, just in case.

“What’s wrong?” Luis asks. Grass stains streak across his light-blue polo.

“Nothing,” I reply with a smile. “Come on. Let’s color for a little while. I have something important I need to finish up.”

I get the kids settled at the patio table with two fresh coloring books, sing along with Jada as she pulls out all the green crayons for her picture. I’m on automatic.

And once they’re busy, I start googling.

Query: Ian Hall

The first result? Breaking news from the Voice of Jamaica.

IAN HALL’S HIDDEN AFFAIRS EXPOSED!

Oh no.

I open the article.

The Voice of Jamaica investigative team has obtained exclusive evidence of a truly jaw-dropping discovery. Our quality informants claim that politician Ian Hall has allegedly led a repulsive double life. By day, Hall portrays himself as an upstanding citizen of our beautiful country and as an advocate for our global expansion. But by night, the politician fills his time with disgraceful affairs, often with his own au pairs, nannies, and housekeepers. Is the Honorable Ian Hall truly honorable? Is he fit for public office? Is Ruth Hall too frigid to keep her man satisfied at home? The Jamaican people have a right to know.

Bolstered by anonymous sources, the article details years and years of Ian stepping out on Mrs. Hall. Blatantly.

And it isn’t just hearsay. There’s evidence—like a disturbing amount of it. Receipts for lingerie stores in Kingston, invoices for weekend stays at Treasure Beach, extravagant dinners in Montego Bay, photos of Ian canoodling with an East Asian woman near Emancipation Park, embracing an Indian girl on a yacht. How the hell did Patrick Clarke not burn this shit ages ago?

If the Gleaner is wanting to report on this, then the evidence must be solid. Even though the Voice of Jamaica broke the news—and everyone knows not to listen to them—nobody would touch this story if the proof wasn’t damning.

“Miss Rina, color with us!” Luis calls out.

“Just a second,” I mumble. I jump down the page.

But the real bombshell lies in the claim that Hall has harbored a closely guarded secret for years. Sources allege that the man who rose through the ranks of Jamaican politics has also fathered at least one secret child, likely born from his illicit liaisons with a member of his domestic staff. How far has Hall spread his seed? What other secrets are Hall and his associates keeping?

I stop scrolling.

The infidelity, I knew. Kelly’s just one of many on Ian’s roster.

But the kids? Secret kids?

That’s new.

And that’s possible. If someone’s fooling around that much—and probably never wrapping it up—they’re going to slip. At least one of his girls had to have gotten knocked up by now.

You do not know who Mr. Hall really is.

When Simone told me that, I thought she was saying she knew him better than I did, that I didn’t understand the relationship they had or how good he was to her.

Maybe she was right.

What if Simone isn’t Ian’s latest side chick?

What if she’s his child?

And what you think you see? You don’t.

Could Ian have brought his own daughter to work in the mansion so he could keep tabs on her without tipping anyone off about who she actually is? Maybe that’s how she gets so much work, too, like at the banquet and the benefit concert. Of course her father would make a way to provide for her without having to expose all his wrongdoings. And if Simone truly needs the money, of course she’d agree.

She’s definitely been more defensive of the Halls than the other Young Birds. Like when Josh complained at the rum bar, she said we all need the Halls to survive. She listens, behaves, works hard, never gets into trouble.

The perfect daughter.

My hand wobbles as I lower the phone. This is nuts.

The kids color a few feet away. For once, Luis isn’t being a menace. And Jada isn’t sucking her thumb. They’re comfortable. Peaceful.

And they have no idea how much of that peace is about to be ripped away.

YOUNG BIRDS

I spend my first evening in the abandoned game room losing. Badly.

I center my stick and aim for the solid red billiard ball.

Ora kisses her teeth. “Can’t believe they just fire you like that.” Josh stands beside her and sips the ice-cold pineapple soda I handed him as a paltry goodbye gift. He looks even more relaxed than usual. Didn’t think that was possible. “And all over some food?”

“It gets better,” Josh says. I lose focus on the game as Josh digs into his pants pocket and retrieves a crumpled sheet of paper. “Thomas gave me a bill. So I can pay the Halls back for what I took.”

Aaron scoffs. “Don’t pay that, man. If Thomas didn’t catch you, bet they wouldn’t even notice the food was gone.”

“You get it now,” Josh says, smirking. He drops the invoice on the ground and digs his shoe into every fold and crease. “Knew you’d all come around. Now I can leave happy.”

“But who’s going to piss me off if you’re not here every day?” Ora whines.

Josh smirks. “Bet Aaron will bother you if you ask nice.”

My hand slips. I tap the cue ball, and the red ball veers in a random direction. My turn’s over. I put down the stick while Ora does a dance and cheer.

Losing a game is no big deal. I’d rather lose and have most of the Young Birds talking to me again than win and keep getting iced out for being a bitch.

Green and yellow wood masks stare with hollow eyes from their place on each wall. My mind drifts. I was desperate to get the kids to bed just to gather my thoughts in peace. But there are too many, scattered all over like the billiard balls.

Ora misses her shot, so Simone takes hers.

We’re on the same team, but Simone and I have barely spoken. And if I was wrong about the Ian affair thing, I deserve the silent treatment. But I have to know how true the new rumors are. The bastard kid story was the one thing the Voice of Jamaica didn’t provide any hard proof for. So is that lead bullshit? Or is it the next big scandal if Ian and Simone aren’t careful?

“Got a weird call today from some reporter at the Gleaner,” I say casually. “Dude was asking about Ian.” Maybe teasing out the topic will get Simone to spill.

But instead, everyone else does.

“I got a call too,” Aaron says.

“Same,” Josh joins. Beside him, Ora nods. Her too.

Simone doesn’t respond. Focuses on her shot.

“He asked you all about Ian?”

“No,” Aaron replies. “He left a message asking about… you.”

“Asked what you like, what type of person you are,” Ora says.

Josh adds, “How you and Mr. Hall connect.”

Aaron clears his throat. “He wanna know if the two of you were… very friendly.”

Because after that article, everyone thinks the au pair must be sleeping with Ian. No wonder that reporter called. He wanted to see if I’d defend myself or lie or admit to it.

Simone shoots. Pockets the solid blue ball. She moves to a new target.

“Think only Scoob had nerve enough to call him back,” Ora says. “Thought it was finally his chance to tell the paper how he honestly feel, yeah?”

“The Halls them not my boss anymore. Could have said anything.” Josh sucks his teeth. “But just spoke truth. Don’t know anything for certain, and I told him that.” He looks at me. “And not say a word about you, Bambi.”

Hearing that pet name is a relief. “Thanks,” I tell him, and I mean it.

Josh shifts uncomfortably. “The man did say some weirdness, though,” he admits. “Ask about Twitter, some hashtag.”

My mouth dries out.

“Something about New York, something between you and this girl. Jan? Jay?”

He means Joy.

My stomach drops.

I did everything right. Did everything I could to cover my tracks and kill the version of me I no longer wanted to claim.

But still, that bitch lives.

The truth is out there. I can’t erase or delete it. And I can’t hide forever. One day, the Young Birds will know. One day, probably soon, Aaron will know. And I will lose them. I’ve had a taste of that already.

Isolation hurts. Loneliness hurts. Being misunderstood hurts. And I will suffer it all again.

I wouldn’t have survived Blackbead without each of the Young Birds keeping me going, in their own way. I’m a hair’s breadth away from being back in a bedroom, curled under the comforter, hiding. Or in a jail cell. Which would be worse?

“Very weird stuff,” I mutter. “Not sure what that’s about.”

“So you don’t know anything about none of that?” Simone asks. She scowls at me. And I get it.

But back the fuck up.

“No, I don’t.”

“But that’s a lot to ask about. Specific too.”

“It’s strange. But I don’t know anything more than you do.”

“You know what funny to me?” Simone wonders. She slams down her cue stick. “Carina love love love to be in everyone else business. Did scold all of us on her first day because we share a rumor here and there, but run her mouth more than we. Right?”

Nobody speaks.

“Yet anything about her, nobody can know. Suddenly, she don’t even know. Tight lip.” She whips around to the rest of the group. “What we know about her? Truly?”

The question I asked her, about Ian. Here she goes, throwing it back in my face.

Why did I ever say anything?

“Juney, stop,” Aaron murmurs. “Keep your voice down. We’re chillin’. It’s Josh’s last day.”

“No, you all let the girl act stupid ’cause she foreign, ’cause she pretty. She play dumb like the pickney them. Wake up.” Simone points a shaky finger at me. “If the news ’bout Mr. Hall true,” Simone spits, “Carina just as bad as him. Two-faced.”

Simone never talks like this. And to hear her sling these words—about me—hurts like hell. I want to shout back, push back, fight back. She doesn’t know me or anything I’ve gone through.

But is she wrong?

I’m expecting Simone to share everything, confess to sleeping with Ian or admit to being one of his secret kids. But when Ora asks me what my favorite color is or if I’ve ever ridden a roller coaster, I spend an extra five seconds debating the consequences of being honest versus telling Joy’s truth instead of mine. I’ve curated myself so heavily, built a persona for everyone to accept, from Ian and Mrs. Hall to the children to the kitchen staff. I’ve built a pen for the monster within, thrown a muzzle on her, tried to tame her.

And who has the monster become? Do I recognize her?

Do I see me?

“Simone, enough,” Aaron orders. “If Voice of Jamaica true, what we know is Mr. Hall a coward. People who lie like him? Cowards. Bambi, she nah like him, never has been, never will be.”

Even faced with all my bullshit, Aaron imagines the most generous possibilities. He hears all my off-key notes and assumes they’re simply part of the song. To him, I’m brave. Open.

What does he see in me?

Being in Jamaica, being with the Young Birds… it hasn’t been perfect, but I’ve felt more me than I have in a long time. Guarded, sure, but myself. I imagine the rum bar, me dancing with strangers and friends, or joking around in the group chat.

That was me. Not Joy. Me.

Listening to Ora’s love for her dead brother. Giving honest advice to Josh about leaving Blackbead. Comforting Jada and Luis at night while their father’s shouts echoed in their ears. Telling Aaron it’s beautiful to feel. Trying to help Simone so she doesn’t get hurt like I did.

Bits of me showed themselves, even when I tried to hide them. Pieces of myself felt safe here, with these friends I’d made.

The truth in the light.

No shadows to hide in. No secrets to keep.

If getting justice for Kelly means exposing everything, even about myself, will I do it?

Run.

My gut twists, and acid rises in my throat. I’ve worked so hard to cover it all. But that’s what Ian does. Plays pretend, shows the photo-ready version of himself to the world.

I want to be better than him. I want to own all of me, show all of me.

I’ve faced loss before. Embarrassment before. Emptiness before. But I survived.

If the truth means losing my friends, so be it.

Because I can survive anything. Even heartbreak.

Especially that.

By sunrise, I make a choice.

After the morning bell, I get dressed, pad quietly out of the house, and sit underneath the big mango tree, cell phone in hand. The air’s heavy with the promise of an incoming storm. A strong, cool gust rustles the leaves, races across my skin. The world is headstone gray.

Blackbead used to be so beautiful to me. It still is. But there’s something rotten here.

And today, I root it out.

I open WhatsApp and dial Lloyd Jones.

“Miss Carter?” he answers. There’s a smugness to him. Asshole. “Glad to hear from you. We were… disconnected yesterday.”

“Yes. Apologies. Poor signal.” My eyes flit to the kitchen window. I don’t hear anyone in there yet for breakfast. And Dante could come out soon to sulk in the garden. I need to be quick. “I have some information about the Honorable Ian Hall.”

“I’m all ears.”

“It’s not… I’m not fooling around with him.”

“I understand why you would say that, Miss Carter.”

“I’m not trying to protect him. It’s the truth. But I have a story—a real one—that is way more important than who Mr. Hall is cheating with.”

There’s a long pause, as if now he’s debating whether or not to hang up on me. Then: “Go on.”

“One of Mr. Hall’s girls was a young woman named Kelly Rowe. R-O-W-E. She worked at Blackbead as a nanny, and she was deep into it with Mr. Hall. Then, fifteen years ago, she vanished.”

“She left?”

A cabinet slams in the kitchen. Blackbead’s waking up. Shit. I whisper. “Allegedly. But it was very sudden. Her family reported her missing and got nowhere. The Halls claimed she went abroad. And then the police just dropped everything and gave up.”

“So your theory is—”

“My theory,” I say, attempting to hide where nobody can see me if they peer through the window, “is that Mr. Hall had something to do with Kelly Rowe’s disappearance. And I’m pretty sure Kelly isn’t missing. She’s dead.”

Saying this aloud to someone other than the Young Birds feels crazy. Like I’ve dropped a bomb. But as I say it, I feel the heft of my words. The duppy is Kelly. Something awful happened to her. Ian must be involved.

And finally, the truth is out there. I brought it to light. Kelly will have some justice.

“You’ll need to provide evidence for this claim. You understand this, right?”

“Pardon?”

“The burden of proof rests on you, Miss Carter. As of now, what you’ve shared is mere speculation. The Gleaner is a prestigious publication, not TMZ. Without concrete support for your allegations, we could not, in good faith, run a story like this.” Lloyd half chuckles. “I mean, if I’m hearing you correctly, you’re accusing a party leader of murder.”

“I know, but—”

“Then you can understand my hesitation to simply take you at your word.”

Without proof, the press isn’t interested. But I can’t tell him that my source is a fucking ghost. So I shut my mouth. Exhale hard through my nose. Stay calm.

“I also admit,” he goes on, “that I’m somewhat skeptical of you.” His condescending tone grates me. It’s like he can’t imagine speaking to me about anything more serious than my presumed sex life with a married man. Gross.

“Just because I’m young doesn’t make me untrustworthy.”

“Oh, it’s not your age, miss. It’s you.” On the other end of the phone, I hear the sound of papers shuffling. “Are you aware that there is an old picture circulating online of a now-deceased Joy Carter… and her close friend Carina Marshall?”

My throat closes.

“Seems a bit convenient that you wish to minimize your visibility in the press at this time. And that you’d do so with this narrative about… Mr. Hall killing a young woman.”

“Bring me some more cornmeal, will you?” Wesley’s request filters outside. Dante will walk by soon.

I’m out of time.

I can’t control Lloyd. What he discovers, what he shares with the world—it’s up to him. But I know what I can do.

“I’ll get your evidence. Have a good day.”

I hang up, wait for my hands to stop shaking.

One more time.

I will find the truth just one more time.

Because something is rotten here.

And I will root it out.