The Watcher Girl(32)

Perhaps she was feeling me out just as much as I was feeling her out, and all her efforts to build a wall between Sutton and me were protective, precautionary measures?

There’s a chance that her sugar-sweet naivete was nothing more than an act, and if that’s the case, she got me. She got me good. No small feat.

I imagine her putting together the facts piece by piece—Sutton relocating the family to my hometown, naming their daughter after me, marrying a woman the spitting image of the one that got away . . .

All this time, I took Campbell as green and trusting—but maybe it was me.

Maybe it was me the whole time.

Rose pulls into the driveway and releases an exaggerated yawn. I carry most of the groceries in, even though her baby is the size of a raspberry (according to the app on her phone). We make our way to the kitchen, and she arranges flowers in one of Mom’s Cartier crystal vases while Dad asks what the occasion is. Bliss offers to help make tea, Evan cracks eggs, and Sebastian pulls up five minutes before the quiche is done.

The big announcement is met with happy tears and a round of hugs, which I manage to stealthily avoid in exchange for smiles.

This is, quite possibly, one of the most normal days this family has known.

I allow myself to enjoy it, even if it’s the equivalent of a scratchy sweater on a hot day, suffocating but comfortably warm.

Later that night, drunk on expensive wine and emotionally tapped out from an entire day with these people, I fling myself onto my bed and stare at the ceiling, replaying the scene with Sutton and his daughter at the store.

I never should have doubted him, never for an inkling of a second believed he could be anything less than wonderful.

Rolling to my side, I’m about to let the exhaustion of the day wash over me when my phone vibrates on the nightstand. I’m half-tempted to ignore it when it buzzes a second time.

Exhaling, I tug it off the charger and bring the screen to my face, squinting in the dark until the time comes into focus.

11:42 PM.

Pulling up my Messages app, I expect to find something from Jonah or the woman checking my mail back in Portland where it’s several hours earlier in the day.

But it’s Campbell.

Campbell: So sorry to text you this late . . .

Campbell: Are you still in town?

I sit up, flick on the lamp beside me, and brush the hair from my face. My vision blurs in and out of focus. Too much wine. And the room tilts and spins.

Yes, I text back immediately. A million scenarios flood my mind as to why she would be texting me out of the blue this late, but none of them make sense given what I concluded earlier. What’s up?

Campbell: Can you meet me at the park on Hallworth in five?

I don’t respond quite yet.

I’ve spent far too much time on the dark web to know that this is what happens when someone’s about to get set up.

I tap out a reply: It’s kind of late . . . Can I ask what this is about?

A moment later, a photo comes through—a partial image of what appears to be the side of Campbell’s face.

She’s been crying, as evidenced by the smear of black mascara below her eye.

And a red welt the size of a hand blankets her cheek.

The mere image of her injury evacuates the air from my lungs.

This isn’t a setup or an act.

It’s a cry for help.

See you soon, I type.





CHAPTER 13

Campbell’s dressed in all black, and I only spot her in a picnic shelter thanks to a reflective stripe on the side of her shoes.

“Where’s Gigi?” I ask.

“She’s at home—she’s safe.” Campbell’s voice carries a hint of congestion, matching the tear streaks on her face. “He has her, but she’s fine. He would never hurt her.”

“Does he know you left?”

She shakes her head. “No. He’s sleeping.”

“What’s going to happen if he wakes and you’re not there?” It doesn’t feel like I’m talking about the same man. The vision of the sweet, doting father at the grocery store and the memories of the attentive, selfless boyfriend from my early twenties fade into nothing. “We have to get you out of there. You and Gigi.”

I take the spot beside her.

She doesn’t smell like me tonight. I catch a hint of dessert wine, though it’s possible it’s emanating from my pores and not her.

“He’s a good man,” she says. “He’s just been so stressed lately. He wasn’t always like this.”

I know. “What happened? Can you tell me what happened?”

Campbell exhales, breath ragged, shoulders slumped. “I told him I wasn’t happy here. That I wanted to go back to work. That I was lonely. I told him I felt trapped . . . and then he called me an ungrateful bitch.”

“Bitch” was never a word in Sutton’s vocabulary. I can’t recall a single instance I heard him utter the word.

“He told me he’s given me this perfect life, and he didn’t understand why it wasn’t good enough,” she continues. “And he’s right. Things are pretty perfect. He takes care of us. He loves us.”

“That’s not love.”

She’s quiet.

“And you’re capable of taking care of yourself,” I add. “Lots of people do.”