The Watcher Girl(39)

“Rose, are you sure?” I tuck my chin. “Are you absolutely sure it was Dad?”

“I mean, we’re talking fifteen, twenty years ago, but yeah. I’m positive.”

I begin to ask why, but I stop myself. I doubt Rose would have an answer.

I’ll ask him in person—when I’m ready.

I let my sister’s words sink into my marrow, rewriting a narrative I’ve lived with almost my entire life. One that’s defined my human ego in more ways than I care to admit. One I believed with every rooted inch of my warped little soul.

Now I know—I couldn’t have been more wrong.





CHAPTER 19

“I tried twice.” He goes by John, but for the purpose of our arrangement real names aren’t necessary.

We maintain the smallest amount of eye contact.

“Did you make sure there was no Toyota in the driveway?” I don’t mean to insult his intelligence, but the answer matters.

I scan the parking lot to ensure we’re still alone. An abandoned plastics factory looms over us as a trailer-less semi whirs past.

I try not to think about what someone like John does on the dark web.

“Yes, ma’am. Driveway was empty both times. Tuesday morning. Wednesday afternoon. I can try again tomorrow, but it’ll be an extra fifty. And I’ll have my kid with me because it’s my weekend. Not ideal for either of us.”

It took two days for someone local to respond to my post on The Black Board. A dozen others reached out, but the majority of them were from Brooklyn, Queens, or eastern Pennsylvania and wanted to be handsomely compensated for travel and mileage.

“Did it sound like anyone was home? When you stopped by?”

“House was dead quiet.” He shifts his posture. “Sure you don’t want me to try one more time?”

“No. You have the package still?”

He hands me the manila envelope containing the burner phone, the one I’d given to him earlier this week when we met at a bar downtown. The fake label is still intact, wrinkled but legible, and I slide out my phone to transfer him fifty bucks’ worth of cryptocurrency. I show him the TRANSACTION COMPLETED verification, and he gives me a nod, climbing back into the cab of his black Chevy half-ton. I return to my car and get the hell out of there, a death grip on the wheel as I navigate toward the main road.

At a red light two blocks down, I perform a quick search on my phone, queuing the Monarch Falls nonemergency dispatch number.

It takes me half the ride home to make the call.

“I’d like to request a welfare check on a woman and child at 72 Lakemont Street,” I tell the man on the other end.

I pray I don’t make things ten times worse for her.





CHAPTER 20

I give myself the rest of the day off and bide my time at a giant bookstore with three floors and meticulous displays, searching for the perfect peace offering.

Three hardbacks rest in the crook of my arm, their virginal spines uncracked, and I stop at a table stacked with dozens of women’s literature options. I don’t know what my mom reads in prison these days. I don’t know what she read before prison, either, or even if she read. She was always flitting about, running errands, coming and going. Some people are addicted to busyness. It’s an escape. A distraction. I imagine there aren’t too many of those kinds of outlets in prison.

I choose a staff recommendation, a historical tome, a book on meditation, and something with an Oprah’s Book Club sticker on the cover before making my way to the checkout. Rose gets her used books, which I find interesting because Rose’s never been the frugal type, and our mom was used to having nice things back when she had an actual life outside those concrete walls.

Regardless, she’s getting new ones from me.

With their smudge-free pages and shiny covers, they’re as close to a fresh start as we’re going to get.

I part with nearly a hundred bucks and stroll toward my rental, purchases in arm. This morning I overheard Dad talking to Bliss about taking the afternoon off. I’ve been paying more attention to his schedule lately, mostly to prevent our paths from crossing. Ever since Rose enlightened me about our father’s part in that Domestic Illusions book, I’ve had to bite my tongue and keep my distance.

The man’s giving me a place to stay. I’m not in a position to be confrontational. And even if I were to grab my things and shack up in a hotel for the time being, the nearest accommodations are three miles on the other side of town—a far cry from the three blocks that separate his house from Sutton’s.

Like it or not, I need to stay put.

I place the bag of books in the passenger seat and check my phone before pulling out of the parking lot, though it’s not like I’m expecting a phone call. The police officer I spoke to earlier said she wouldn’t be able to tell me if Campbell was okay, but that if anything wasn’t okay, they would proceed with any necessary actions.

When I get home, I camp in the driveway, car idling as I check the websites for three local news stations. I hold my breath and scan the headlines for anything containing the phrase “missing local woman.”

Nothing.

I shove my phone into my bag, kill the engine, and stare at the front of the house before forcing myself to go inside. Bliss’s car is here. So is Dad’s. We’re going to have to talk sooner or later.