My Darling Husband(77)
Sebastian cocks his head. “Hey, what do you think Cam meant when he said don’t listen to me?”
It takes a second or two for my mind to catch up to his sudden change of subject, and then another few seconds for the meaning to come to me in a slow drip. Cam told me not to listen to Sebastian. He said he was lying, that none of the stuff he told me was true.
Which also means that Cam heard our conversation. He remembered the nanny cams, he was listening and watching. He heard everything.
“What?”
“Cam, when he called just now. He said, Jade, don’t listen to him, referring to me. It was one of the first things he said after I put him on speakerphone. What do you think he meant by it?”
“I don’t...” My voice breaks, and I swallow. Force myself to breathe. “I don’t know. He probably figured you’d been telling me all sorts of awful things about him. Which is true, by the way. You have been.”
“Possible, but it seemed like he had ears in the room or something. Almost as if he’s been watching us the entire time. What, does he have ESP?”
I think of my phone on the side table next to the gun, the colorful cartoon image of a baby’s face among the apps on the third page, above the word iSpy. Two little swipes of his finger, a couple of taps to the screen, and Sebastian would be staring at himself on the screen. He’d see me clinging to the recliner next to my strapped-down daughter. He’d hear my lame-ass lie, coming at him in stereo: “That’s impossible.”
Sebastian gives me a one-shouldered shrug. “Maybe, but Cam still knew. I mean okay, sure. Let’s say he had a hunch I’d gotten in your ear, but he sounded so certain about it. Not even the slightest hesitation or a question mark, just pure conviction right out of the gate. Doesn’t that seem kinda funny to you?”
“Not even a little bit.”
He regards me, silent, as the lights flicker on in the backyard outside, a golden glow that filters up to the window. They work on a timer, which means it’s dangerously close to seven.
“Right, right.” Sebastian’s shoulders relax under the black fabric of his shirt, and mine do, too. He goes back to his tape, and I blow out a silent breath while at the same time, my fingers tighten on the cushion.
He transfers the strip from his fingers to the side table, the stubborn tape not wanting to let go of his gloves. As soon as he frees one finger, the tape sticks to another, and he tucks the roll under a bicep so he can use both hands. When he’s free, he whirls to face me.
“But what if it was? I mean, you wouldn’t be the first parent to stick some spyware in a teddy bear so you know when the babysitter has fallen asleep on the job. What do they call those things? Nanny cams.” He looks around demonstratively, taking in the decor, his gaze finally landing on Baxter’s stuffed gorilla, sticking out from under the coffee table. He reaches down, wrangles it off the floor.
If Baxter were here, he’d be going ballistic. Gibson doesn’t like to be squeezed.
Sebastian holds the animal in front of his face. “Hey there, gorilla. You got any nanny cams in that big fat belly of yours?” He gives it a good shake, then tosses it to the floor.
I stare at Gibson, wedged between the table and the carpet by my feet, and try to breathe.
Sebastian steps to the center of the room, rotating in a slow circle. “Though, if I were going to install nanny cams in my house, I sure as heck wouldn’t put them in something as cliché as a stuffed animal. I’d be a little more creative, maybe hide them in a plant—” he steps to the coffee table and rifles through the fern directly in front of me, shrugging when he finds nothing but fronds and dirt “—or a picture frame. Books. You’ve got a bunch of books over there on the shelves. Any of them contain cameras you forgot to tell me about?”
I shake my head, but I’m not very convincing. The strips of tape dangling from the console, the insistence I move to the far chair. He’s all but forgotten that plan now, but I can’t shake the feeling that something’s off. That this is all an act.
It’s certainly possible he’s seen the nanny cams on my phone. He’s had plenty of time to look, moments when I was tied to the blue chair and wouldn’t have seen him nosing through my phone. This is a test, he said the first time he asked me about the cameras. This could be one big ruse to watch me paint myself in a corner.
One by one, he inspects the possibilities in the room. He runs a gloved finger down the book spines, bends to study the bowls and vases on the console, pulls the paintings away from the walls and peers behind the frames. He takes his time, moving around the room so slowly, so leisurely, I begin to think he’s running down the clock, dragging the drama out on purpose.
He parks his feet in front of the shelves, standing dangerously close to where two cameras are hidden—one in a speaker high on the wall and the other in the ugly mantel clock. Above my head, about five feet to my left, the third camera provides a birds-eye view from what looks exactly like a fire alarm.
Nobody will ever know the difference, the installer assured me as he screwed it into the plaster. Not unless they sell fire alarms for a living.
Now Sebastian extends a long finger at the ceiling, and my heart stops. “What about that thing?” He points to the motion sensor, its light flickering red in a corner of the ceiling.
It takes me a second or two to find my voice. “Just another Santa cam.”