The Watcher Girl(28)
More than anything in the world, I want to believe her. If she truly believed she was guilty, I can’t imagine she’d be talking to me right now. She would have ignored my call. Changed her number. Continued to lay low.
“Do you think she’s still out there?” I ask.
“Anything is possible,” Sarah says without pause.
My entire life, the only thing I’ve ever wanted was to meet one person who shares my blood.
I never once imagined the possibility that it could be my own mother. Sure, I’d hoped. I’d let the occasional daydream slip between the cracks of my reality. But I never believed it could happen.
I want to know if it would feel different.
If I would feel different.
“I’m so sorry, but I’m running late for work,” Sarah says. “Good luck with your search.”
“Wait.” I walk faster, irrationally trying to catch up to someone on the other side of the country. “Is there anything else you can tell me about her?”
“I wish,” she says. “You ever think about doing one of those DNA test things?”
Many times.
But I would never.
I don’t trust them.
Call me paranoid, but working on the dark web and seeing the underbelly of corporate and government intelligence agency corruption, you couldn’t pay me enough to spit into a tube and mail it off to a laboratory for eternal safekeeping.
“I really do need to go, though,” she says. The background noise crescendos on her end, as if she’s strolling into a bustling LA restaurant or one of those trendy open-air markets. I’d love to know what her life has become since that year with us. A conversation for another time. “If you think of any other questions, give me a call. I can’t promise I’ll have answers for you, but I’ll do what I can.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.” I end the call and head home, fantasizing about a DNA test I’ll never take and all the connections it could lead to. Second, third, and fourth cousins. Aunts. Uncles. Grandparents. Half siblings.
There could be an entire bloodline out there of people just like me—a fact as enthralling as it is terrifying.
CHAPTER 11
“What are you doing over here?” I find Rose lounging in the family room when I return from my walk, a paper-thin tablet in her lap.
My conversation with Sarah has been playing on repeat in my head the past ten minutes, surreal and vivid. I want to rewind it a hundred more times and listen all over again, if only because it gives me hope. A little spark of something I didn’t have before. I may never find my biological mom, but the fact that she could be out there is a thought that electrifies my reveries. New food for thought.
She glances up from the screen. “Working.”
“Where’s Dad?” I ask. “And Bliss?”
Rose shrugs. “Probably at the country club?”
“So you just come here to . . . work?” I ask.
She chuffs. “Evan’s working from home today. I’m going over next month’s edits. Needed some peace and quiet.”
I can’t imagine Evan being noisy, but what do I know? Apparently nothing.
“You want to see?” She hands me the tablet before I have a chance to respond. “These are July’s edits.”
The logo for her lifestyle brand—The Blushing Rose—splays across the top of the page. I swipe through a handful of color-coordinated vignettes featuring tablescapes, outfits, floral arrangements, and menu suggestions for the perfect Fourth of July backyard bash.
I visited her website once before, out of curiosity. And at the time, I found it to be superficial and materialistic with a healthy side of vanity. Everything was so flawless and unspoiled. So curated. So . . . Daphne. Not to mention overpriced. The fact that there were people in this world who would shell out almost a hundred bucks for a Bulgarian rose–scented coffee-table candle with my sister’s logo on the side blew my freaking mind.
But maybe I judged her too harshly.
Maybe all she wanted was admiration and validation.
It takes a tremendous amount of time and energy and clout to build a brand out of thin air.
“Looks amazing.” I hand it back. “Well done.”
Her pale eyes shine, aglow for all of two seconds before she digs into the purse beside her and retrieves a small black-and-white photo.
“Got my sonogram yesterday,” she says. “Officially eight weeks and five days.”
I examine the blurry image and pretend I know what I’m looking at. Aside from her name in the upper left corner, it’s all Greek to me.
“Have you told Evan yet?” I ask, giving it back. “Congrats, by the way.”
“I did. And thank you,” she says. I try to picture her lithe, ballerina-esque figure with a basketball-sized bump.
“How’d he take it?”
Rose exhales. “He was shocked at first. But he’s doing okay.”
“And how’d Dad take it?”
Her gaze snaps to mine. “I haven’t told him yet.”
“What? Why not?”
“Just waiting for the right time, I guess. Kind of want to make it a big, fun thing.” It’s such a Daphne thing to do—make something “a big, fun thing.” No denying she’s her mother’s daughter. “Was thinking tomorrow, maybe? Over brunch? You want to help me? It could be fun . . .”