The Watcher Girl(40)

Once inside, the foyer is silent. No echoes of conversations. No TV in the background. I poke my head into the kitchen, peer through the sliding glass doors, and spot the two of them by the pool in the backyard, none the wiser.

With inaudible steps, I trek upstairs—only to have my phone buzz the instant I reach the landing.

I don’t recognize the number, but I answer, a startled pang in my chest. “Hello?”

The family portrait facing me at the top of the stairs has been straightened since the last time.

“Really, Grace? Sending the police to my house for a welfare check?” It’s Sutton.

I exhale.

“What exactly are you trying to do here?” The anger in his tone is foreign, much as it was the other day in the parking lot of his office, but everything else about it almost feels like home. A sick, sweet combination. “What’s your angle? What do you want? You know what, I don’t even care what you want—I just want you gone. Leave, Grace. Stay away from my family before you make all of this worse.”

My skin hums and my tongue is electric. “Worse for whom?”

Sutton is quiet for a beat, and then he scoffs. “Do I really need to answer that?”

“Yes.” I stand tall and indignant in the safety and privacy of my father’s home, simultaneously wishing we were face-to-face once more. “If you love her, you’ll let her go, Sutton. You’ll do the right thing.”

I wait for a response that never comes.

“Sutton?” I check my screen only to find he ended the call seconds ago.

He’s never been the kind to insist on having the last word, but now we’re two for two.

I call him back now that I have his number.

Three rings and it goes to voice mail.

I clear my throat and wait for the tone. “I’m not leaving.”





CHAPTER 21

I reread my newest Black Board ad and press “Enter.”

It goes live in under a second—and it goes against everything I stand for.

I could lose my job for this—and if Jonah finds out, I will. No questions asked. No opportunities for apologies or forgiveness. No number of excuses will be able to justify a Watchers and Guardians employee soliciting the illegal services of a dark web hacker.

I offer $500 for anyone who can get me into the Whitlocks’ security system so I can view their cameras—$1,000 if they can get me access in under twenty-four hours.

All I want is to make sure Campbell and Gigi are okay.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Within minutes, my messages populate with interested parties, most from Russia and Canada and a handful from the States. I sift through their responses, deleting the ones clearly generated by an AI autoresponder attempting to phish for passwords.

I’ve narrowed it down to three users when a new message pops up from someone named Imaginary_Comrade18.

“I can get you in,” he writes. Adding, “One hundred percent.”

“Proof?” I type back.

A second later, he sends me an image of a Stone Wall Security Systems employee badge, the face and name blacked out.

He could’ve gotten that anywhere, or it could be Photoshopped.

“Going to need more than that,” I write.

“I can’t give you more than that . . .” A moment later, he adds, “Give me twenty-four hours and I’ll get you in. Promise.”

I know better than to place my hope in internet promises, but I’ve got a good feeling about him. Or maybe it’s desperate hope. My mind is too frenzied to tell the difference.

He sends me an invoice for $1,000, along with his crypto handle.

“I’m not paying you until the job is done,” I tell him.

He sends another message. “Obvi. Just sending it through so you have it when I’m done. I require immediate payment upon completion of the work.”

I settle against my headboard and nibble at a jagged cuticle.

“Fine,” I write back, and then I delete my post on The Black Board.

I need this done ASAP and I don’t have time to interview candidates, so I’m willing to give him a chance.

“Just need a name and address,” he writes.

Before I talk myself out of it, I’ve already hit “Send” on the info. When I’m finished, I shove my laptop to the edge of my bed and sprint to the bathroom to throw up.





CHAPTER 22

Imaginary_Comrade18 sends me a link exactly twenty-two hours and forty-three minutes later. I must have checked my messages hundreds of times, holding my breath between each and every refresh.

I click on the site and expect to find a prepopulated log-on—instead I’m met with a live, full-color, high-definition image of the Whitlocks’ living room.

I clamp my hand over my mouth and lean in, examining every pixel, zooming in and out on anything I can’t immediately identify.

A remote control.

A pacifier.

A teething ring shaped like a giraffe.

The space is empty save for their gray sofa and matching loveseat, their jet-black coffee table with the child safety bumpers on the edges, and a lifeless TV hanging above a white fireplace. Gigi’s playpen is folded in the corner, next to a basket overflowing with books and toys.

“How long is this link good for?” I message my guy.