The Bodyguard ✔

Chapter Eight

I expected my sleep would be haunted by terrible nightmares, but it didn't. For one of the first times in weeks, I slept through the whole night.

I woke up to sunlight illuminating my white-painted room. I look at my cellphone. My dad has left me three messages: one telling me he has landed and the two other asking me if everything is alright. Should I ask him about the security cameras? No, I don't want to make too big a deal out of it. My dad should be concentrating on work now. I send a message with the assurance everything is okay.

I get out of bed and change clothes. But chills spread over my body when I put on my jeans. Are there cameras hanging in my bedroom? I look over my shoulder to the highest corners of my room. Nothing there. Maybe that would be too obvious. I scan my room for possible hiding places, but again, I can't find anything suspicious. The feeling of being watched doesn't go away, so I leave the room.

I walk downstairs, heading for the front door. The tendency to feel some sunlight on my face is too great to control. I swing the door open and walk outside, but stop after a couple of steps. I close my eyes and lay my head in my neck. I can feel cold air sting in my lungs, but it's okay. The sun tingles my skin. I breathe slowly in and out. This is the first time I felt suffocated by the house and wanted to go outside. I hear a singly bird sing. Maybe I should go back inside before I catch a cold.

I haven't seen Frank yet, but I don't feel the need to search for him. Instead, I practise an etude of Rachmaninoff on the piano.

I've been playing for at least an hour before I hear metal clinging somewhere behind me. I turn around.

How odd it looks, seeing Frank cook. He notices I've stopped playing and turns his head in my direction. "I know you don't like me listening to your playing, but I can't let you starve either."

I was still practising the piece, so I actually don't really mind him listening now. But did I hear him correctly? Is he cooking for me? "You know, I'm almost an adult, I can cook for myself. Besides, I'm not that hungry."

He smiles. Again, I gaze upon an odd view. "You will be when I'm done."

Okay then. I'm not sure what to do now. Should I ask something about the security cameras? He didn't really hung one up in my room, right? "Frank, about those cameras," I pause and measure his reaction. He patiently waits until I continue. "Is there like... have you...uhm... where are they exactly?"

He points at the front door. "One there and one at the back door, both outside. Two downstairs and two in the hallway upstairs."

Oh. "That's all?"

He looks at me, confused. "Yes. What did you think?"

I look at my feet. "I don't know, I thought you maybe had put one in my bedroom as well."

He freezes and appears to be offended. "I wouldn't ever do that."

After a couple of seconds, he continues slicing a green pepper. Maybe I'm wrong about him. He doesn't look like such a scary guy while cooking. I walk to the kitchen and go sit on a stool, not far from where he's cutting vegetables. "What are you making?"

"Spaghetti."

I try holding a decent conversation, so again I ask him a question. Maybe a stupid one. "Oh, but you aren't Italian, right?"

He looks up, trying to figure out if I'm serious. "I'm pretty sure I don't have to have a permit to cook spaghetti."

"Of course you don't." I say. "I don't think you have Italian ancestry, but I'm pretty sure you've German blood."

For the first time, I see him look surprised. "My grandparents are from Berlin."

I smile out of self satisfaction. He looks confused for a moment and orders me to go sit at the kitchen table. I indeed became hungry, because of the delicious smell. I enjoyed the dish, but couldn't help myself feeling like I've said something terribly wrong. Frank never looks absent, he is always focused, but he did appear to be thinking about something.

And it didn't seem to be something good.