The Watcher Girl(14)
It isn’t profuse, but it stings with every pulsating second.
“Oh, my gosh. Are you okay?” The woman places her hand on my shoulder. “This corner is the worst. No one’s lived in this house for months, and I’ve been trying to get the city to trim the hedges. They keep saying they will, but—”
Squinting in the direction of her voice, I find a familiar face partially obscured by the morning sun.
“Here. Let me help you.” Campbell hooks her arm into mine. “You good to stand on your own?”
I brush bits of dirt and grass off my thighs once I’m on my feet. “Yeah.”
“You’re bleeding.” She cups my scraped hand in hers, careful not to touch the damaged skin. “I live a few houses down. Why don’t you come back, and I’ll get you cleaned up?”
Jerking away, I give her a curt, “No.”
Head angled, she examines me. “But you’re hurt . . . I’ve got a first aid kit. I can get you some ice for your knee. I feel so awful. You fell because of us.”
She points to the child, as if I could possibly not notice her in that bumblebee-striped stroller.
“I’m fine. I promise.” I keep my head tucked and gaze lowered, wondering if she’ll recognize me from yesterday and thinking of all the ways that could potentially complicate things.
“Seriously, I live right there.” She points to the brick-blood house. A flash of inventive scenarios floods my imagination once more, this time settling on their first date. I bet he took her to an Italian place—his favorite fare—and I bet he asked if she wanted to walk around after. He always liked a long stroll after a big meal. It settles his stomach. “It’ll take two seconds.”
“I don’t want to impose. I’m staying not far from here.”
“So you’re going to just . . . hobble home?” She half laughs, but not in an offensive, condescending way. “At least let me give you a ride.”
There are a million ways to say no, and Campbell is having none of it.
Her daughter coos from the safety of her stroller and gives me a chubby-handed wave. Not that I ever fantasized about motherhood, but I used to wonder what our kids would look like.
She has Sutton’s eyes. A stunning green-brown-gold cocktail topped with a fringe of silky chocolate lashes. I’ve never been one to fawn over adorable children, but I can’t help staring longer than I should.
“Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.” Campbell positions herself behind her stroller and waves for me to follow. “I’m Campbell, by the way.”
I know.
Walking away now would be a jerk move. And while seeing Sutton like this (me sweaty, scraped up, and bleeding and him in the confines of his own home) wasn’t part of the plan, it’s an opportunity to get things moving in the right direction.
I follow Sutton’s wife to 72 Lakemont.
This is happening.
My thoughts are gibberish and my legs are rubber with every step and the ground beneath me is unsteady, but we make it.
Campbell parks the stroller by the front porch, and a moment later, she slides a silver key fob from behind a terra-cotta planter by the door.
My stomach flips. This is insane. This is a bad idea. But this is exactly why I’m here.
I want to say something to make this less awkward, but clearly it’s not awkward for her. She invited me. This was her idea. I didn’t plan this—it fell into my lap. And I tried to say no . . .
I almost ask if her husband is home, but I think better of it. It’s a strange question to ask if you don’t know someone. Plus, she hasn’t mentioned having a husband.
“This is so kind of you, really,” I manage to say.
“Oh, gosh. Don’t worry about it,” she says with her back to me. There’s a smile in her voice.
I run my dampening palms along my thighs and steady my breath when I deduce that the odds of Campbell locking up the house when her husband is home are probably nil. Most people won’t do that unless they live in a sketchy neighborhood, and Monarch Falls has nothing of that sort.
Does Sutton know his wife is this willing to entertain a stranger? That she made no effort to disguise where the spare key is hidden? If I were a nefarious person or a woman desperate for a small child of my own, I could wreak havoc on their happy little nest. That Stone Wall Security Systems sign in their landscaping means zilch if someone knows where the spare fob is hidden.
My chest turns to steel, hard and aching with a longing to protect his family—the things he loves—from danger, from the sickos in this world.
Campbell presses the key fob against a black sensor. A second later, the lock pops, and with stinging, aching, elastic legs, I follow her into a house that smells like cinnamon, Cheerios, and newish construction.
She doesn’t call out, doesn’t announce her arrival.
I’m certain, at this point, he isn’t here.
I release the breath I’ve been holding.
“Oh. If you don’t mind.” She points to my shoes as she slides off her own, and then offers an apologetic wince. “My husband is a freak when it comes to dirt in this house. One speck and I’ll never hear the end of it.”
Really? Sutton?
“Of course.” I slide off my scuffed-yet-new running sneakers and swallow the disbelief lodged in my throat. When we lived together in college, I had to practically set up a sticker chart to remind him to load the dishwasher or pick his dirty clothes up off the floor. And don’t get me started on the countless hours I spent scrubbing dried toothpaste from the bathroom sink because he was in such a hurry he’d forget to rinse it out.