The Watcher Girl(48)

Her brows knit. “Don’t you want to know?”

“Of course,” I say. “But we didn’t exactly leave things in an amicable place. I’m not about to ask her to spit in a tube.”

Nor am I about to spit in a tube.

“Maybe she’s got some other kind of proof? Obviously she homed in on you for a reason. She has to know something. And you do look similar.”

I top off my wine. Sip. Reflect. Scrutinize.

“You should reach out to her again, ask her more questions,” Rose says.

“She asked me not to bother her anymore.”

Rose places her water on a marble coaster with a smack. “She doesn’t get to do that to you. She doesn’t get to play victim for weeks, drop this bombshell in your lap, then expect you to fade into the background.”

I’ve never seen sweet Rose this fired up.

I must admit I enjoy this side of her.

She almost reminds me of . . . me.

“Call her,” she says. “Call her and demand your answers. Ask about your dad. Ask anything you want to know.”

The crystal clock on the fireplace mantel settles at nine PM, and I’m certain this day is refusing to end to spite me.

“I hate to pack up, but I told Ev I’d be home by nine and it’s already past,” Rose says. She rises from the sofa, fluffs the pillows behind her back into place, and adjusts her top. “But I’m serious. Call her. You have a right to know what she knows.”

I let Rose hug me, and I inhale the remnants of her floral perfume and the faded fabric softener that clings to her blouse.

“We’ll talk tomorrow, and you can tell me all about it,” she says with a wink as she slips a camel-colored crossbody bag over her shoulders. I recognize the rose emblem on the side. It’s from her personal line of merchandise, and I kind of love that she wears her own label. Speaks volumes about her character.

The fullness of pride silently—and unexpectedly—wells in my chest as I watch her leave.

And as soon as the front door latches closed, I head upstairs and make that phone call.





CHAPTER 28

I call Campbell on the burner, and I don’t expect her to answer. But in the middle of the first ring, she does.

“Grace,” she whispers. “Oh, my God. I’m so glad you called.”

Muffled noises fill the background. Shuffled feet. Heavy things being thrown about. The quick slick of a zipper.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“Packing.”

I’m confused, but I don’t pry. “I just had a few questions about your dad . . . our dad . . . that whole thing.”

“I’m sure you do.” She’s breathless. There’s a second zipper followed by a muted thud. “And I want to apologize for all of that. For the way you had to find out. I wanted to tell you, but there was never a good time. And then when Sutton found out you were back . . . he didn’t like us talking.”

Of course not.

He knew me, and he knows I’d never put up with him treating someone like that—especially if there’s a chance they are my own flesh and blood.

He was right to fear my presence.

I didn’t go quietly. But I am going.

He won. And I’m not proud.

“Listen,” she says. There’s another zipper, then silence. “I’m leaving him.”

“Again?”

“I didn’t leave before—I went to my mother’s in Connecticut,” she says. “I needed him to cool down. We needed space. And it was her birthday, so the timing worked.”

“So why couldn’t you talk to me then? Why couldn’t you tell me that? You couldn’t have called when you got there? Do you know how worried I was when you weren’t returning my phone calls?” I don’t mean to go off on her, but the questions hurl themselves with minimal effort.

“He monitors all my phone calls and texts,” she says. “I couldn’t risk him knowing we were still in contact.”

Even if that’s true, couldn’t she have called me from her mother’s phone? Borrowed a landline at a local diner?

I take a seat on the floor and pull my knees to my chest. “So you’re actually leaving him now? You and Gigi? For good?”

“Yes. But I need a favor.”

“Okay?” My heart races. I imagine hers does, too. I’m good at leaving people—it’s kind of what I do . . . but I’ve never helped anyone else leave. This could get tricky. Dangerous, even. Dampness blankets my palm. I move the phone to my other hand and wipe my hand on my thighs.

“I have a friend with a cabin in Sussex County, about eighty miles north,” she says. “I’d order a taxi, but they don’t take cash. And they don’t go beyond a sixty-mile radius of here. Also, it wouldn’t be hard for him to trace any of those transactions and figure out where I went.”

“So you need me to take you to this cabin? When?”

“Tomorrow night,” she says. “I’m going to crush up a couple of Ambien and put it in his wine at dinner. He’ll be out cold in an hour, two at the most. By the time he wakes up, we’ll be gone. I’ll leave my phone. He’ll have no way to trace us . . . Gigi and me.”

“When I said you should leave him . . . I meant divorce him. Move out. Kidnapping your own kid, Campbell . . . I don’t know if I can help you do that.” My temples throb. I pinch the bridge of my nose, hard, to transfer the pain.