The Watcher Girl(26)

This is new.

If Sutton gets real-time notifications on his phone anytime someone presses it, he’ll see my face.

I angle myself away from the tiny, eye-shaped lens.

Light footsteps trail from the other side of the door, growing closer before stopping altogether. She’s probably peering out the sidelight or peephole or checking her app—seeing who’s out here.

A lump lodges in my throat.

I’m no stranger to rejection of the friend variety. Lord knows I’m not everyone’s cup of tea and vice versa. But something’s not right here, and I refuse to walk away and let this be the rest of her life: a prisoner-like existence, married to a man who treats her like a possession, a man who punishes her because she can never be the woman he truly wants.

I reach for the doorbell once more, and then I think better of it, letting my hand fall to my side.

I can almost feel her on the other side of the wall, her energy apprehensive and palpable.

From the inside, Gigi babbles.

A second later, the deadbolt slides and the door swings open.

“Grace. Hi.” Campbell is planted on the other side of their screen door. Her gaze falls to the handle. Is she ensuring it’s locked?

“Hey.” I smile. And then I wave, which is a weird thing to do since we’re separated by a couple of feet, but I’m trying to be friendly. And nonthreatening. The poor woman has enough to be afraid of right now. “I was just jogging by. Hadn’t heard from you since the other day, so just wanted to say hi.”

God, I sound psychotic.

“I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be in town,” I add before she responds. She’s quiet anyway. “So I guess I just wanted to say it was nice meeting you.”

Maybe I can instill a hint of urgency into this. If she catches any inclination that I can be her ticket out of this, she’ll read between the lines.

Campbell hoists Gigi on her hip and reaches for the handle, stepping outside to join me on the porch. I inspect her face for signs of anything nefarious—bruises, handprints, scrapes, black eyes, caked-on makeup.

But she looks exactly the same as she did last week.

“That’s so sweet of you to stop by to say goodbye.” Her voice is lighter now, and she shields her eyes from the sun despite the fact that we’re standing under her covered front porch. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get back to you last week. Gigi’s been fussy. Think she might be teething. And then Sutton came back from Baltimore . . .”

Had I not witnessed the private phone calls, had she not confessed to me that he was “particular,” had she not ignored me last week, I’d think nothing of this.

I’m convinced there’s trouble in paradise.

“When are you heading back?” she asks, lashes batting.

“I don’t have a date yet. Soon, though. Maybe in the next week or so? I was going to see if you wanted to maybe grab coffee one more time?”

Her brows meet and her lips start to move, but before she makes a sound, my phone vibrates in my hand. A cursory glance at the screen shows a flashing number with a Los Angeles area code. It takes all of two seconds for me to realize it’s the last Sarah Thomas calling me back.

The timing couldn’t be worse.

“I’m so sorry—I have to take this,” I tell Campbell before backing away. “I’ll get ahold of you later, and we can figure out coffee?”

“Sure.” She studies me. Gigi waves.

I’m halfway down the front steps, finger hovering over the green “Answer” button on my phone, when I turn back to her and ask, “You going to be okay?”

Without hesitation her expression hardens. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

My phone vibrates in my hand. One more ring and it’ll go to voice mail. I tap the green button and lift it to my ear before I lose the caller to a game of phone tag.

“Hello?” I trek toward the sidewalk, glancing back for a moment to find Campbell lingering in her doorway, screen door ajar as she watches me walk away.

“Is this Grace McMullen?” a woman’s voice asks.

“This is she.”

“I’m Sarah Thomas. You left me a message the other day . . .”

“Yes.” I round the corner, and I’m breathless. “This might be a long shot, but are you the woman who nannied for my family twenty years ago?”

Hesitation and quietude settle between us.

Then a long breath.

“Yes,” she says. “I am.”

My ears burn hot. I grip the phone until my hand aches, as if holding on to it tight will keep her on the line regardless of what I’m about to ask her. Worst-case scenario, I offend her and she hangs up. Best case? She answers all my questions and then some.

“I will say, though, I don’t remember much about that time in my life . . . ,” she says. Her words are slow, careful, medicated almost. “And honestly, we probably shouldn’t even be talking.”

I don’t ask her why she called me if she feels that way. People have all kinds of weird reasons for doing what they do.

“I completely understand. And I respect that,” I tell her, trying to slow my walking pace and steady my breath. “I actually had a few questions about my biological mother, Autumn. I was told the two of you were friends . . . roommates . . . when she was younger.”