The Watcher Girl(30)

“What?”

“When you were at my house earlier, you asked if I was going to be okay . . . Why wouldn’t I be?” Her voice is robotic and terse, rehearsed almost.

No. Coached.

I pace the space in front of my shower, racking my brain and silently going over all the signs suggesting Campbell’s in a bad situation.

“I just . . . I get the impression that maybe . . .” I bite my lip and choose my words with the care of a hostage negotiator. There’s also a chance that Sutton’s beside her, listening to every word we exchange. I certainly don’t want to say anything that could make this worse for her. “I could be wrong . . . but it seems like your husband is a little on the controlling side, and—”

She interrupts me with a single puff of air through the receiver. “I appreciate your concern, Grace. But we’re fine. Everything’s fine.”

Gigi wails in the background, calling for her.

“I have to go. Just please don’t . . . don’t insinuate that kind of thing again, okay?” she asks, though it’s more of a command than a question. The receiver grows muffled for a moment. Gigi’s cries are closer. “You don’t know the first thing about my marriage. Or me for that matter.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, picturing him beside her, nodding with approval.

“You’re right. I don’t. And I hope I didn’t embarrass you by asking. It’s just, I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

“Sure.”

Sure? That’s all she’s going to give me? He’s got to be there.

“Have a safe trip home, Grace,” she adds, curt and quick or perhaps distracted. “It was lovely to finally meet you.”

The line goes dead.

But her words echo in my head: “It was lovely to finally meet you.”





CHAPTER 12

“Should we do pink and blue flowers, or is that cliché?” Rose grabs a bouquet of pale-pink carnations from a grocery store display and holds it up. “Maybe we should just do white? But what does white even mean?”

She returns the flowers to their holder and whips out her phone, thumbs tapping against the screen at lightning speed.

“Purity or innocence,” she reads aloud. “Pretty sure that ship has sailed.” Moving past the first display, she stops in front of a refrigerated section of various floral arrangements. “Could always do yellow. That’s gender neutral . . .”

I lean against the handle of the shopping cart, half-present, half a world away.

“Never mind. Yellow means sorry,” she says, half-pouting.

I wonder if it’s occurred to her that maybe she should hold off on making this announcement? That many pregnancies don’t make it past the first trimester? If I were expecting, that’d be my first thought.

Then again, things always have a way of working out for my sister.

“I’m overthinking this, aren’t I?” Rose selects a frilly mix of peonies, hydrangeas, roses, and baby’s breath. “This would be so much easier if Mom were here. She’d pick the perfect flowers.”

I say nothing because . . . what is there to say? Mom’s not here. She’s rotting in a prison. Why torture yourself with wishes that can never be fulfilled?

“What are we serving?” I change the subject. “For this brunch?”

“Quiche. Fresh fruit. Muffins. Coffee, juice, tea. Nothing crazy.” She pulls up a shopping list on her phone and texts it to me. “Divide and conquer? You do the first half; I’ll do the second, and we’ll meet at the checkout?”

She’s listed enough food to feed an army, despite the fact that it’ll be six of us—and that’s only if Sebastian shows.

“Sounds like a plan.” I grab a basket and follow my nose to the bakery department, where I select an assortment of twelve mini muffins.

Oranges are next, and then I make my way to the other side of the store to grab eggs. Once there, I select the pack with the tiniest crack in one of the shells like I always do—an imperfect dozen.

Passing the dairy aisle, I toss a few yogurts into my basket and a pack of string cheese for myself, and then I head to the front of the store to wait for Rose near a display of patriotic-themed snack cakes.

Up ahead, a young mom with a messy bun and neon-print leggings negotiates with her toddler son, who’s begging for not one but two bags of Skittles from the checkout. She skillfully ignores his red-faced tantrum and tearful pleas as she loads her items onto the conveyor. Two minutes later, the little boy wipes his alligator tears on the back of his hand, and the two carry on as if none of it happened.

I do a quick search for Rose before shooting off a text, letting her know I’m up front waiting. It occurs to me that I’ve no idea if she’s the kind of person who goes into a store with a list of ten things and comes out with thirty-two. Our mom was that way. She loathed nothing more than feeling underprepared.

A dark-haired man in a Yankees cap steps in line behind the pair, adjusting his cart and reaching into his pocket to retrieve a pacifier, handing it to his messy-haired toddler daughter riding up front. He runs his fingers through her hair, brushing it off her forehead, before bending to leave a kiss on her cheek.

It’s a perfectly normal exchange, one that doesn’t cause me to think twice. And I almost glance away in search of Rose again—when it hits me.