The Watcher Girl(22)
“Jersey.” Close enough.
“You got a minute?”
“Yeah. What’s up?”
“Think I finally got a hot lead for you on that Sarah Thomas case.”
My heart hiccups, and for a moment, I forget the situation happening on the other side of the café door.
I’ve been searching for our former nanny for years, hoping she could shed some light on the possible whereabouts of my biological mother, Autumn Carpenter. Allegedly Sarah was the last person to see her alive. And given the fact that Sarah spent almost a decade living as her, she’s the only person who can answer the origin questions that have plagued me my entire adult life.
“You think it’s really her?” I ask. I’ve been burned before. There are thousands of Sarah Thomases in the United States. Even more if I expand my search abroad. With a name that common, hiding in plain sight is a breeze. And she’d have every reason to want to hide after everything that happened twenty years ago . . . working for our family, believing and acting as though I were her daughter.
I have it on good authority that they almost charged her with murder of my biological mother, but in the end, there was no dead body, which meant there could be no homicide case. Also, due to Sarah’s extensive mental health history and personality disorders, her memories would have never been enough to comprise a confession the courts could take seriously.
All I want is a few minutes of her time—a phone call and some answers.
Mostly I want to know what my mother was like . . .
. . . if she had a darkness inside, like me.
If she pushed people away. If things like love made her skin crawl. If staying in one place for too long made her stir-crazy. If we shared the same brown eyes and lifeless, mousy hair. If she stared into the mirror only to find an abyss of emptiness staring back at her.
I also want to know why she chose the McMullens.
But more than any of that, I want to know if there’s a chance she’s still alive.
Not holding my breath on that last one, but I’m going to ask nevertheless.
“I’ll shoot the file your way,” Jonah says. “How’s the Redwood project coming? Told ’em I’d have an update in the morning.”
“Should have it all done by the end of the week.” I underpromise so I can overdeliver. I should have it done in two days. “I’ll keep you posted.”
“Good, good.” Jonah ends the call the way he always ends the call. It’s never “Goodbye” or “Talk to you later.” It’s always “Good, good.”
I tuck my phone into my pocket and head back to the booth, only the second I push through the jangling front door I realize something’s amiss.
Our booth is vacant.
The stroller is gone.
Nothing but my coffee cup remains.
It’s as if they were never there at all.
Sliding into my seat, I sit in stunned silence—until I get a text.
Campbell: So sorry . . . Gigi was fussy and felt feverish. Wasn’t sure how much longer you’d be and didn’t want to interrupt.
Me: No worries! Rain check?
Three dots fill the screen before disappearing completely. A second later, I glance outside just in time to catch her white sedan backing out of a parking spot so hurriedly she nearly collides with a truck backing out at the same time.
What just happened?
CHAPTER 7
Crickets chirp, and the moon reflects off the surface of the pool tonight. On the other side of the yard is the yellow house with the wind chimes, glowing from within. A family lives there now, I’ve deduced. Children’s laughter floats from their open windows, trailing across our backyard. It’s strange to think of the house being purchased and sold, painted and decorated, to think of babies being born and nurseries being set up—all the ways that life is constantly moving on.
It never stops.
That summer with the delusional Sarah Thomas as our nanny was a lifetime ago, and yet in this moment, despite everything having evaporated into ancient memories, I could reach out and touch it, it’s so tangible.
Sometimes I used to stare out my window, gazing toward the glow of her house at night, trying to sneak a glimpse of her taking her dog out or washing dishes in her little kitchen, her handsome boyfriend kissing her neck from behind.
I wanted more than anything to be hers—before I knew who she really was.
Logging on to my Watchers and Guardians app, I pull up the file Jonah sent me earlier and dial the number on the screen.
An automated voice mail greeting answers in the middle of the third ring, and I silently mourn the fact that I won’t get to hear her voice—not that I’d remember it after all these years.
I clear my throat and wait for the tone. “Hi. My name is Grace McMullen, and I’m searching for someone by the name of Sarah Thomas. I think you might be her. You worked for our family twenty years ago as a nanny. I have a few questions for you . . . about my mother. My biological mother. If you could call me back . . . I’d appreciate it. I won’t take up too much of your time.”
I rattle off my number, end the call, and don’t hold my breath.
I’ve left messages exactly like that to hundreds of Sarah Thomases over the years, and never once have I received a call back—not even to tell me I have the wrong person or to eff-off. Not that I blame any of them. We live in a day and age where anyone can pretend to be anyone else, and people are constantly trying to take advantage of the kindness or naivete of others.