The Watcher Girl(34)

She’s on the phone—I didn’t realize—but she asks them to hold and cradles the receiver on her shoulder.

“Is he expecting you?” Her hooded blue-gray gaze drifts toward her watch and then back, almost in slow motion. I realize it’s the end of the day. She’s anxious to go home, and Sutton’s likely finishing up a few things before clocking out, but I’m not leaving until we have words.

“He isn’t.” I force a friendly smile, though my lips are wavy, and I imagine my eyes are tinted a shade of batshit crazy. “I’m an old friend, and I’m only in town for a little while. Wanted to stop by and say hello before I left.”

The woman—the plaque on her desk identifies her as Deborah—doesn’t blink.

I point to her phone. “If you could page him . . . ?”

“He isn’t expecting anyone this afternoon. I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry you can’t . . . call him and let him know I’m here?” I resist the urge to snort or scoff, and there’s a fine line between being rude and being assertive. And making demands won’t get me what I want. “Was actually hoping to surprise him. He hasn’t seen me since college.”

Her eyes scan the length of me, at least the length she can see from behind her desk. I imagine she’s piecing together some internal monologue about an ex-flame showing up unexpected, hoping to woo back a former lover.

“Please, Deborah,” I say, using her name to make it more personal. “If you could tell him Grace is here. Grace McMullen. I promise he’ll want to see me.”

Line one blinks on her phone. Someone is still holding.

“You can finish that call first if you need to.” I point to the receiver on her shoulder. If I give a little, maybe she’ll give a little, too? “I’ll wait.”

Deborah finally blinks, clears her throat, and presses the flashing button. Fifteen seconds later, she’s sent the caller to someone’s voice mail and turned her attention back to me.

“Thank you so much.” I thank her for something she’s yet to agree to do—another psychological trick of the trade—and I cross my fingers.

With the phone flush against her left cheek, she punches in three numbers, keeping her stare trained on me.

“Sutton,” she says. “I have a visitor here to see you . . . yes . . . Grace . . . McMullen . . . yes, I know . . . ah . . . are you sure? Yes. Grace McMullen . . . all right. I’ll tell her.”

Adrenaline heat courses through me, and I wait for her to direct me to his office, only she exhales.

“You said you were an old friend?” Her brows lift, and the lines in her forehead deepen.

I jerk back, vision narrowed, unsure of where she’s going with this. “I am.”

“My apologies, but he said he’s never heard of you.”

My first instinct is to laugh. This has to be a joke.

But Sutton was never a prankster.

This isn’t his sense of humor.

I begin to say something, only nothing comes out.

“Perhaps you have the wrong person?” she suggests with a tempered smile.

“I assure you, I don’t.”

“Well, he seems to think you’re at the wrong place. He’s never heard of you.” Deborah eyes the door behind me. “Thank you for stopping in. Take care now.”

“Wait—”

“No, really. You should go,” she says, cutting me off. “Also, we don’t welcome solicitors.”

Now she thinks I’m peddling something.

“I’m not soliciting. I told you—we’re old friends.” I tuck my hair behind my ear and step closer, readying to lower my voice. I’m prepared to tell her we dated in college, that he’s pretending not to know me because perhaps he’s still jaded. I’m prepared to plead, reason, beg, bribe—whatever it takes.

But I stop myself.

Deborah doesn’t know me from Adam.

I have no credence with her.

And identifying myself as an ex only serves to make me seem like the crazy one for stopping by—it won’t make him seem like the crazy one for pretending he doesn’t remember me.

“If you don’t leave, miss, I’m calling building security.” She’s sweet about it, if a person can be sweet about that kind of thing. Mollifying gaze, silky voice. Though maybe the kindness in her tone is more of a defense mechanism—like if you come across a bear in the wild and you’re supposed to play dead.

I scare her.

“All right. Well.” I take a deep breath, rap on the counter, and prepare to show myself out. “Thank you for your help.”

I leave the office suite, but I don’t leave the parking lot.

I find his SUV.

And I wait.





CHAPTER 16

I roast in the hellish early evening sun for two hours before the asshole finally emerges.

Dark jeans. Cognac leather loafers. White button-down sans tie. A casual look to match the casual facade he wears as he pretends his wife isn’t missing.

I spot him before he notices me. When our eyes lock from across the parking lot, he knows there’s no hiding. There’s no middle-aged receptionist to shield him from me. No walls or doors to separate us.

His mouth presses into a flattened frown as he makes his way closer. He doesn’t slow down or speed up.