Nanny Returns Read Online Free PDF Page A

smoking in a man’s fingers jerks me back to the wall. Grace pants around her frayed rope as she stares intently at the bottom of the door, waiting for it to be opened. Not a chance. I glance at the dead bolt to confirm it’s bolted and, with a dully clattering heart, back up to the railing.
    ZZZZZZZZZZ— fitz! The light two stories above goes out. Bringing us to a last pair of working fuses. Fabulous.
    “Fuck,” I hear from the front stoop. I stare at the door’s peeling paint with an intensity rivaling Grace’s. “Look, just open up,” he speaks in a plaintive slur. “I left my wallet in the cab …and I just …I heard you …I know you’re—fuck.” I hear a thump and then something sliding heavily down the other side of the door.
    Grace drops her head to sniff the jamb. I take a tentative step and ever so slightly lift the curtain. The streetlamp illuminates splayed khaki pants ending in shiny loafers. I make out slender fingers drifting open, releasing their grip on a black iPhone. My well-attired assailant is now slipping into unconsciousness? Death?
    “Hey.” My voice surprises me and sets Grace barking. “ Stop. ” I put my hands around her muzzle to listen …Nothing. “Hey!” I slap the door.
    “Yeah?” he coughs. “You’re home.”
    “Who are you looking for?” I step around where Grace sits, ears squarely perked.
    “Um . . .” I hear a scuffle; he’s attempting to stand up. “I’m looking for a …Nanny?”
    My throat goes dry. I peer back out through the frayed lace covering the pane between us. “What?”
    “Yeah, Nanny. Are you—”
    “Stand in front of the glass. On your right.” …Nothing. “Hey!”
    “Yeah.”
    “Your other right.”
    Suddenly my view of the stoop is filled with a swerving face—a man—boy—somewhere in between. Beneath the mussed blond hair, atop the faintly freckled nose are two bloodshot blue eyes. They look out at me from the striking bone structure that unmistakably conjures his mother. I push my forehead into the cold glass, feeling at once a hundred years old and twenty-one. “Grayer?”

2

    “You know me,” he states flatly, taking a half step back from the window.
    “Grayer,” I repeat to the teenage incarnation of my last charge.
    He swerves out of view, sending me fumbling for the locks. Grabbing a restraining hold of Grace’s collar, I dart outside just in time to hook his belt loops as he tips over the stoop wall and retches onto the garbage cans. Bending my knees to counter his heaving weight in the frigid night air, I note that the heat is the one thing that fully functions in the house looming above us.
    “Okay …done,” he croaks, and I pull him upright, his body loose like a harlequin, emitting a thick aroma of liquor and nicotine. He rakes the sleeve of his peacoat across his face and stumbles back to lean against the closed door, his eyes focusing as Grace growls through the wood.
    “You’re taller than me,” is all I can say, realizing this is actually happening.
    “You have, like, a pit bull in there?”
    “A golden retriever.”
    “I had one …I was allergic …as a kid …had to get rid of it.” His eyes roll back.
    “I think you should come inside.” I gesture to the knob. He nods, momentarily righting himself, and I awkwardly maneuver around him to open the door. Grace grabs her rope and jumps up to greet us.
    “Woo. Hey.” Grayer pats her down, reaching a hand to the banister and swinging himself in a large arc to sit on the bottom step. I relock the door and turn to stare at him in the streetlight spilling through the transom’s stained glass.
    “Grayer,” I falter, reaching far into my brain for the speech I’d once prepared for this very moment. “I’m so, so —”
    “You a witch?” he asks, resting his head against the wall.
    “What? No, I—”
    “Cooking meth?”
    “Okay, I didn’t just show up at your house puking.”
    “It’s just . . .” He waves his hand around the decrepit