The Watcher Girl(50)

“You didn’t think I would? Or you hoped I wouldn’t?”

“Both.” He takes a sip, and we finally make eye contact again. “At the time, I was thinking of it as an apology, of sorts, to your mother. For what I put her through. She sacrificed a lot for this family, and she deserved better than me.”

No wonder the story portrayed her as a saint and him as a charming womanizer.

“You couldn’t have written her a letter? Visited her in person and told her how sorry you were?”

“She wanted nothing to do with me after everything. Wouldn’t take my letters or let me visit,” he says. “After all we’d been through, I wanted her to know I still loved her. That I forgave her for what she did.”

“For having Marnie Gotlieb murdered, you mean?” My words slice the thick air that separates us. The coward can’t bring himself to say her name, so I’ll do it for him. “Or for her part in tearing up our family?”

“All of it.” His eyes apologize, but the rest of him is stiff as a board. “And I guess I was hoping for her forgiveness, too.”

“And the only way to do that was to sell us out?” I ask. “Excuse me—sell me out.”

His shoulders rise. Exhaling, he hesitates. “I’m sorry, Grace. I’m so sorry. If I could take it back, believe me, I would. But I can’t. All I can do is apologize. And ask for your understanding.”

I can’t look at him. Biting my tongue, I glance away.

“I never meant for you to get hurt in all of this,” he says. His pained gaze glides to my hand. If I were Rose, he’d likely reach for it in an attempt to comfort me. But he knows better.

My eyes well. I squeeze them until it stops. All these years, I could’ve had a relationship with my mom. I won’t get that time back. And whatever relationship we have moving forward will be forever changed because of it.

“Dianna donated a portion of the proceeds to you kids,” he says. “I told her it wasn’t necessary, but I think somehow it made her feel justified in writing this book and making money from it. Anyway, I placed your third in an account, where it’s grown quite a bit over the last decade. Doubled almost. I was waiting for the right time to tell you about it, but I guess—”

“I don’t want it.”

“Grace.” He scoffs, as if he can’t fathom the idea of someone turning down free money. Only this money isn’t free. It came at a price.

“I mean it. I want nothing to do with that book. With what you did.” I shoot him a look, only to realize there are tears in his eyes. Real tears. But as far as I’m concerned, our conversation is over. I said what I needed to say. He apologized. No need to drag this out or turn it into some Hallmark moment. I won’t hug him. I won’t offer him clemency.

There’s nothing the man can say to undo what’s been done, and he’ll never understand the full effects of his actions or how they’ve trickled through me and spilled over to the Whitlocks. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: the man is bulletproof.

Everything ricochets off him.

Everything.

I leave my father alone with his tears, and I head upstairs to wait for Campbell’s call.





CHAPTER 30

It’s three minutes to midnight when she calls.

I sit up on my bed, in a pitch-black room, in a silent house. I must have passed out.

“Hey,” I answer.

“We’re ready,” she whispers. “He’s finally out.”

“I’ll leave now.” I push myself off the bed and locate my purse on top of the dresser.

“Pick me up around the corner.” Each syllable is whisper soft, at times inaudible. “I don’t want him to see your car—on the driveway camera.”

Five minutes later, I’m idling around the corner from 72 Lakemont, under a black patch of darkness between two streetlamps, when Campbell appears out of nowhere, run-walking toward my headlights with a sleepy Gigi on her hip, an overflowing backpack on her back, and a car seat in her arm.

I climb out and help her load up. She hands Gigi a sippy cup and buckles her seat into the middle of the back seat.

The moon is full, and the street is asleep.

Not a single car coasts by.

“I’m sorry it’s so late,” she says when we’re fastened in the front seat a minute later. “We had a late dinner, and it took him longer than I thought to fall asleep. I wanted to make sure he was really out before I made any noise.”

He was always a light sleeper.

Pulling out her phone, she types an address into the GPS. A voice comes from its tinny speaker, telling me to proceed to the highlighted route, but I can’t see her screen.

“Go left at the stop sign.” She glances back at Gigi, keeping her voice soft.

“Where’s the burner?” I ask.

“In my bag,” she says. “This is a satellite phone I picked up a few days ago. My friend said cell service is terrible at the cabin.”

She crosses her legs in the passenger seat, making herself small, compact. I imagine she’s scared.

“How are you feeling? About all of this?” I ask once we turn left. The GPS tells us to stay straight for the next five miles. “You doing okay?”

Campbell nibbles at her thumb, nodding.