The Watcher Girl(38)

“Fine. But get me the Maylands project first.”





CHAPTER 18

“Have you heard of this show before?” Rose mutes the TV Saturday morning. We’re hanging out again, if you can call it that. “Family Finders.”

I glance up from my phone, refreshing my email for the tenth time this hour. I posted on a dark site called The Black Board last night, looking for someone to pose as a delivery man. I’ll provide him with a khaki uniform, a name tag, and a package containing a prepaid cell phone programmed with my number. If Campbell doesn’t answer the door, if he’s not able to make contact with her, I’ll resort to having the authorities perform a welfare check.

“Nope, never heard of it,” I say.

“So there are these people who will take your DNA and find your family for you,” she says. “All you have to do is let them document your journey and film the reunion.”

“Eh. That’s okay.” Exploiting other people’s trauma and tragedy for entertainment is a sick concept. I’ll have no part in it.

Rose leans forward, examining me. She’s wearing glasses today—thick rimmed and opaque pink—and her hair is styled in wide, brushed-out curls. I bet she had a photo shoot this morning for her website. “The other day you gave me the impression you were wanting to find your birth mom. These people could help you find her. Maybe. Or at the very least a cousin.”

I don’t have the energy to explain to her the kinds of things people can do with your DNA or the contract I’d be required to sign, giving away any and all rights to said DNA.

“I appreciate that, but it’s fine, Rose, really.” I go easy on her. She means well.

Turning her attention back to the TV screen, she leaves it on mute.

I check my email—again.

“I’m going to visit Mom next week.” Her voice is low, soft, careful. “Was going to tell her about the pregnancy. You want to tag along?”

Tag along . . . so casual.

“Rose.”

“I know. I know.” She places a splayed hand over her heart, and I don’t have to look at her to know her eyes are pleading. “For me?”

She’s never asked me for anything—except to help her with brunch last week.

But right now, she’s asking for the world.

I let my phone fall into my lap and angle myself toward her. “Did you ever read that book . . . Domestic Illusions?”

Her pale brows meet, and she shoves her glasses up like a headband. “Parts of it. A long time ago. Why?”

“Mom sold me out, Rose. I can’t forgive her for that.”

She sinks back into the sofa. “What are you talking about?”

“All that stuff about the nanny, about my biological mom being presumed dead, about Mom’s bond—or lack thereof—with me.” My hands tremble as I speak, a million tiny earthquakes rumbling to the surface. I always knew I was adopted—that was never a secret. But discovering the behind-the-scenes details surrounding that fateful summer in a true crime paperback book was heartless. “She should have told me those things, not some random author trying to cash in on our family tragedy. I shouldn’t have had to read about them. And what did they have to do with her anyway? Sarah Thomas being in our life for one summer had nothing to do with her hiring some druggie to kill her husband’s mistress. Was she trying to make herself look like a saint? A woman with the weight of the world on her shoulders? Was it worth it? Throwing me under the bus like that?”

“Grace . . .” She sucks in a long breath, and her baby blues widen. “You have it all wrong . . . Mom had nothing to do with that book.”

Of course Rose’s quick to defend her.

“And how would you know this?” I ask.

“Because I remember meeting the lady who wrote it—Dianna something,” she says. “She was over here all the time when she was researching. She practically lived here for months, always hanging all over Dad, asking him questions. They’d stay up late and drink by the pool and talk for hours. I was just a kid back then, but I remember. She had jet-black hair down to the middle of her back, and her nails were always some shade of blue. Turquoise, navy, cerulean, sky . . .”

My stomach swells with nausea as my world tilts on its axis.

The last time I saw Daphne, I barreled into the prison on a mission, the dog-eared paperback under my arm. And the second she appeared on the other side of the dividing wall and reached for the phone to speak to me, I slammed the book against the glass—in her face.

And then I yanked the receiver off its hook so hard I smacked myself in the mouth, resulting in a mild fat lip that lasted three satisfying days. A battle wound.

I don’t remember everything I said, but I do remember the sharpness of the words I spoke to her, the way they sliced my mouth when I spoke, the way they gutted me straight down the middle. I remember how desperately I wanted her to feel what I felt.

Used.

Betrayed.

Discarded.

Her lips had trembled, and her eyes filled with tears—a confirmation of guilt.

I turned my back on her—sweet irony—and rode out of there without letting her explain. There was nothing she could say to fix it. Nothing she could do from behind bars to make it right. The damage was done. She’d made her choice, and I’d made mine.