The Watcher Girl(36)

I wonder for a moment if she knows more about me than she lets on, but then I deem it impossible and shake the thought from my mind.

“Anyway, I walk down that old street sometimes,” she waxes on. “Looking at all the houses. A lot of young families now. New construction tends to attract the younger crowd—the ones whose marriages are still perfect and think they need to have that perfect house to go along with it.”

She huffs to herself.

“I’m not bitter,” Bliss says. “For the record. I’m just making an observation. From my experiences. You know I was a therapist, right? Back in the day?”

“Back in the day? You act like you’re old or something.”

Bliss swats my arm. “You’re sweet.”

She thinks I’m being cute, but I meant it.

We’re one corner from turning onto Lakemont, and Bliss is still yammering on, this time about my mother’s peony bushes and how hardy they are. She’s never seen anything like it. For years she tried to grow peonies like that . . .

I nod and offer the occasional, “Mm-hmm.”

She carries on.

By the time we hit Lakemont, she’s moved on, asking if I’ve had a chance to download her meditation app since I’ve been home.

I consider lying to spare her feelings, and then I think better of it.

There are enough liars in this world without adding one more.

“Not yet. I’m sorry,” I say.

“Oh, honey. Don’t apologize. You’re a busy woman. Always working. Always running around. Not trying to give you more to do.”

We walk in lockstep. I place a half-second delay into my next step, breaking our perfectly synced strides.

“I always say meditation’s not for everyone,” she says. “But it should be.”

Up ahead, Sutton’s home glows from within, lamplight behind curtains. With every pace forward, I watch for something, anything.

A shade, a shadow.

A sign of life.

His silver SUV rests in the drive, just as lifeless as the home itself.

“My house used to sit right . . . there.” She points to the off-white European-style house next to Sutton’s. “Took them three full days to tear it down and haul it away. Couldn’t bring myself to drive down this street for months after.”

“I can imagine that was hard for you.” I offer vague sentiments and half of my attention, the other half consumed by the situation at hand.

“These new houses are pretty and all,” she continues, “but they don’t have any history. They don’t have a story. A past. I guess maybe that doesn’t matter to everyone.”

I don’t ask her what she thinks of the history associated with my father’s house.

We pass the Whitlock residence, and I can’t help but careen my neck, soaking in every last ounce of the view.

“You like that house, do you?” she asks.

“It’s an interesting color,” I say. Never mind that it’s too dark to fully appreciate its brick-blood hue. “I’ve seen it in the daytime.”

“The little family that lives there is something else,” she says.

I turn away from the house. “What do you mean?”

“Husband’s supersweet. Friendliest guy you’ll ever meet. But his wife . . . I don’t like to speak ill of people, but she’s not the most sociable.” Bliss hesitates. “Introduced myself when they first moved in. The husband talked my ear off for a half hour. The wife just stood there, checking her watch. Huffing and puffing. Eventually she got him to go inside. Kind of got the impression she ran the show.”

“The people in that house . . . right there?” I nod to it, opting not to point.

“Mm-hmm.”

“Maybe she was having an off day?” People are allowed those . . .

“Maybe?” Bliss shrugs. “I just thought it was strange, you know. Someone welcomes you to the neighborhood, you ought to at least smile, make eye contact. Be cordial. Maybe it’s a generational thing.”

“Moving is stressful,” I say. “Maybe she had a lot on her mind?”

Or she was exhausted. Sore. Overwhelmed. Could be anything. It’s impossible to know.

“No, you’re right. I should’ve given her the benefit of the doubt. And normally I do,” she says. “But do you ever have an interaction with someone that just feels . . . unsettling? And it sticks with you years later, no matter what? Even if you know it’s insignificant or you should brush it off or whatever?”

I nod. “I think we all do.”

There are certain experiences no amounts of meditation or spiritual growth can cleanse from the depths of your mind.

“Can’t drive down this street now without remembering that icy look she gave me.”

Aside from Campbell’s phone call a few nights ago and the defensive tone of her voice, “icy” isn’t a word I’d use to describe her.

Meek. Mild. Frightened. Lonely. Unsure of herself. Backed into a corner. Perfectly average in all walks of life—that’s how I’d describe her.

“They had a baby last year,” she adds. “A little girl. I see them around town sometimes—the wife and the daughter. Grocery store. Bank. Dry cleaner. Used to try to wave, but it’s like they’re in their own world. Stare right through you. Never wave back.”