The Watcher Girl(37)

I don’t share my suspicions with Bliss. I don’t tell her that I suspect Campbell’s being abused and controlled. There’s a chance her standoffishness is a direct result of her husband’s strict, isolative rules.

“Do you see them often?”

She squints into the darkness ahead. “About once a week or so?”

“When was the last time you saw them?”

Bliss’s attention snaps to me. “I don’t know, last week sometime . . . why?”

I think fast. “Maybe introduce yourself again? I’d be curious if she’s always . . . icy . . . or if you just caught her on a bad day.”

She swats a hand. “Eh. Not worth the hassle. Easier to live and let live.”

We continue on our walk, passing the park where Campbell met me late one night to show me the mark on her face after Sutton had struck her.

I almost ask if she’ll keep an eye out for them, but it’s a strange request that’ll require an explanation I’m not prepared to give.

I respect Bliss, but respect and trust are two separate beasts.

I’m keeping this hand close to my chest for now. Besides, it’s my problem to solve, my mess to clean up. No sense in involving anyone else.

Thirty minutes later, we’re home. Bliss climbs the stairs, disappearing into the master suite to “run a lavender bath and cleanse her crystals in the moon.” I grab my laptop and a joint and settle by the pool.

Sutton’s Instaface profile is unchanged—his profile picture still a family portrait of the three grinning Whitlocks standing before their Lakemont arts and crafts bungalow.

I light up, inhale, and call Jonah.

“I need a favor,” I say when he answers in the middle of the second ring.

“Again?” There’s a light chuckle in his voice, one that suggests I annoy him but he’d do anything in the world for me.

“I made a new friend the other day.” No need for specifics, not yet. “And then she ghosted me.”

“O . . . okay. And what do you want me to do about that?”

“I need permission to post on the dark web from behind our VPN.”

“Holy shit, Grace. You’re not going to—”

“God, no. No, no, no. I just need someone—who’s not me—to make sure she’s okay.”

Jonah exhales. “You have reason to think she isn’t?”

“I have reason to think her husband is a controlling asshole who hits her.”

He’s silent. In all the years we’ve worked together, he’s never known me to give this much of a damn about anyone else.

“You know you’re behind on the Maylands project. It was due two days ago.”

“I’m aware. And I’m almost finished.” Working lately has been next to impossible. I can’t focus for long periods of time. Everything becomes a distraction. Doors opening and closing downstairs. The faint hum of the TV trailing from the family room. Bliss diffusing different oil blends throughout the house. One minute I’m too hot, the next I’m too cold. My shoulders tense and ache. The sun shines too brightly through my bedroom window at certain hours. On top of it all, my thoughts are hijacked with worry.

“It’s not like you to run late.” I imagine his lips pressed into a hard line as he takes off his “buddy” hat and slips into boss mode.

“I know. I’ll have it to you tonight. I promise. I just need your permission to post on The Black Board using our VPN.”

“It’d be a lot less of a hassle for you if you simply called the police and had them do a welfare check.”

“I need someone to give me details about what they see. Police can’t do that. Not with welfare checks.”

He groans, but he’s going to give me what I want. I can feel it. He just needs one more gentle push in the right direction.

“I promise I’m not doing anything illegal . . . I just need someone to make a house call, maybe pose as someone selling security cameras or making a delivery or something. I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far ahead yet. If she won’t answer the door for me, maybe she’ll answer it for someone else.”

“And if she does? What then?”

“Then I’ll know she’s okay.”

“And if she’s not okay?” he asks.

“Then I’ll involve the authorities.” It’s an extreme idea, foreign on my lips. Was hoping to be able to handle this on my own as, more often than not, involving police in abusive situations has a tendency to make things worse for the victims. Not always, but sometimes.

He’s quiet, but his dog scratches at the door in the background, so I know he’s still there.

“Jonah.” I attempt to recapture his attention, his favor. “Please. I never ask for anything.”

“You swear on your soul it’s nothing illegal?” His question is legit. If I’m not breaking any laws, why would I need to use the company’s VPN? I guess when you’re accustomed to that extra layer of anonymity, it’s difficult to give that up.

Plus, for every kneecap buster on the dark web willing to do your bidding for fifty bucks, there are ten more willing to sell you out for a hundred.

I need the anonymity.

“Yes. I swear,” I say.