The Watcher Girl(25)

Unless . . .

Unless the two of them talked, and he figured out that her new “friend” is me. And in that case, I can’t say that I’d blame him for requesting that she keep her distance. He’s probably embarrassed.

By the time I get back to my father’s home, I decide enough is enough.

I convince myself it’s time to do what I came here to do.

And come Monday, I will.





CHAPTER 9

I swore I wouldn’t bother him at work—but that was before.

Now that I’m aware of his controlling tendencies, and now that Campbell knows my face, it’s imperative that I run into him solo . . . which is why I’m parked next to his Toyota on Monday, waiting for him to take his lunch.

I called his office earlier, trying to gauge from his receptionist what time he took his lunch, and she cheerfully told me noon to one. Everyone in his circle is too trusting.

I was so prepared to pussyfoot around the question that I wasn’t expecting her to drop that information into my lap. I sputtered out a surprised “thank you,” ended the call, and booked it here.

The clock on the dash reads 12:01, but I check my phone and verify that it’s a few minutes fast.

My skin flushes with anxious heat, and I crank the AC before checking my reflection in the visor mirror. I’m not trying to impress the man, obviously, but when you haven’t seen an ex in eight years, there’s no shame in wanting to look halfway presentable. Plus, no one takes you seriously when you look like a crazy-haired, wild-eyed maniac who hasn’t slept in weeks.

I scan my face in the tiny, dimly lit rectangle, wishing I’d have swiped on another coat of mascara while resisting the urge to fish out a tube of cherry lip balm from my purse. And then I smooth my hair into a low, twisted bun. Neat and clean. As good as it’s going to get.

I imagine I don’t look all that different than I did eight years ago. My face is a little thinner, having lost some of that early-twenties baby fat. The beginnings of cavernous half moons have formed beneath my eyes. I don’t think I had those before. Other than that, my irises are the same shit brown they always were, and my hair is the same shoulder-length, sand-colored bob it’s always been. I’m due for a trim, but . . . priorities.

The clock on the dash reads 12:07 now. Sutton was never a stickler on punctuality, but now that he’s a white-collar working man, I’d imagine every minute of his lunch break counts.

Any minute now . . .

I tinker with the radio for a minute, trying to find a song to distract me, only they’re all obnoxious, so I kill the volume and sink back into my seat, laser focused on the front door.

I want to imagine Sutton running home to enjoy a quick lunch his wife has prepared for him. I want to picture him rolling around on the living room floor with his daughter for a bit, reading her a board book, blowing raspberries on her tummy as she giggles. I want to think that when he’s done, he straightens his tie, kisses his wife, and heads back to the office for the rest of the afternoon.

But now all I can imagine is Sutton texting Campbell twenty times a day to check on her, and not because he misses her or wonders what she’s up to—but because he needs to know where she is at all times.

I then imagine him rushing home at lunch, slamming the door when he realizes his soup and sandwich aren’t ready yet because Campbell’s been too busy dealing with a cranky toddler.

I imagine him riffling through a stack of mail before shoving it on the desk in their kitchen with a sigh, a subtle reminder to his wife that he works hard to support them.

Of course that’s not the Sutton that I knew and loved.

But Campbell’s conduct is textbook. The bruises. The atypical behavior. The way she described him, albeit politely, as a control freak. The math is simple: she’s clearly being abused . . . and he’s the only person in her life.

Even if he’s figured out that I’m in town and that she and I have been talking, even if he’s forbidden her from befriending me, it’s not right to control someone else like that.

That’s his wife, for crying out loud. The mother of his child. Not his domestic servant.

I wait until 12:18.

Then 12:31.

12:47.

At 1:12, I call his office and ask to speak to him—but only as a test. His receptionist patches me through immediately. I hang up before he answers, heart pounding in my teeth.

Exiting the parking lot, I head home, realizing that if Sutton’s at work, then Campbell is home with the baby.

Alone.

This could be my only opportunity to help her.





CHAPTER 10

I change into jogging clothes the instant I’m back and hightail it to Lakemont. I’d have driven, given the urgency and potential time sensitivity of what I’m about to do, but driving to someone’s house after they’ve ignored two texts feels . . . aggressive.

I’m rounding the corner, their house in the distance, when apprehension floods my veins. Knocking on the door is forward and presumptive, but if she’s in trouble, I’d rather err on the side of making a fool of myself than assuming she’s fine and shying away like this is none of my business.

As far as I’m concerned, this is my business.

I’ve turned an angel of a man into a monster—and this is the result.

With quavering thighs, I slow from a jog to a brisk walk before approaching their front steps. I press the doorbell, which I realize now has a camera attached.