The Watcher Girl(55)

Folding my arms, I say, “I can’t control the fact that I came into his life first or that you fell for my ex. I also can’t control that he kept a box of things that reminded him of me. I know you’ve had a rough several weeks, and it’s been a long day. You’ve had some wine. You’ve vented. Now it’s time for you to get some rest. Your daughter’s going to need you in a few hours.”

Her gaze is unfocused, landing over my shoulder. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to be used like a pawn by the one person who was supposed to love you?”

I remember the book, the chapter about Daphne adopting me as a marital Band-Aid, and I think of my father selling our secrets for his own personal agenda.

“I know exactly what that’s like.”

“I gave up hoping you and I would ever meet. I made peace with that. I moved on. He moved on. We were finally happy.” Her dark eyes turn glassy, and she swipes a tear before it rolls down her cheek. “All you had to do was stay away.”

There’s fault in her logic.

My presence didn’t cause the problems in her marriage. Her perception of my presence did. And Sutton may have struck her, but I didn’t lift his hand.

I slip my hand into the bend of her arm and lead her to the bedroom where her daughter sleeps peacefully in a small playpen in the corner. I draw the covers of the queen bed and help her in, searching my soul for every last ounce of compassion. Closing the door when I’m done, I return to my room at the end of the hall, body weak with exhaustion as I crumble into a heavy heap on the vintage quilt.

In the seconds before I pass out, I set my alarm for seven AM. A few hours of sleep and some sunlight are all I need to get out of here.





CHAPTER 32

Hot tension sears through my forehead, shocking me awake the next morning. When I open my eyes, I’m alone. The air is thick and stale in my lungs. The sole window in the room—the one Campbell opened last night—is closed tight. But the curtains remain undrawn.

Sunlight stings my vision, and I recall setting my alarm. I think of my flight. Brunch with Rose. Bits of last night trickle into my memory like a dream, much of it slipping away the harder I try to remember.

A heady scent fills the air—coffee? And outside, birds chirp.

I sit up—or I try to, only to be met with the burn of thick rope against the flesh of my wrists and ankles.

I’m tied to the bed.

“Campbell!” I scream.

This isn’t real.

I lift my head, and the compact space around me spins. Every gasp of air is like trying to breathe underwater. There’s no ventilation, no circulation.

She drugged me.

The crazy bitch drugged me.

She must have slipped something in my wine—the same way she did to Sutton.

“Campbell!” I yell for her again.

The sound of running water—the bathroom maybe—gives me hope that I’m not alone, that she didn’t leave me here. A minute later, the door swings open.

“What are you doing? What is this? Untie me!” I tug at the ropes. It only stings worse. “Campbell.”

The coward won’t look me in the eye.

“I don’t understand,” I say. “All I did was help you . . .”

Her expression twists until it matches the one she wore in the middle of the night as she vented about Sutton, about me. All that misdirected anger. All that . . . hatred.

“Pretty sure I made myself perfectly clear last night.” She makes her way around the bed, inspecting the knots that keep me from moving more than a handful of inches.

“You were drunk,” I say. “You said a lot of things, none of which made sense, to be honest.”

Campbell shoots me a sharp look, a silent Watch yourself.

Gigi calls for her from another room, and without a word, Campbell leaves, closing the door behind her. For a moment, I contemplate screaming at the top of my lungs—until I remember the drive here, the miles upon miles of nothing and no one. The void and the darkness.

No one would be able to hear me.

My left hand tingles with the beginnings of numbness. I pull as hard as I can, desperate to slip my wrist from the knot, only pain shoots to my fingertips, and traces of blood push through broken skin.

Heat pricks my eyes, a threat of tears, but I refuse to cry.

I’m not going to die.

Not here. Not today.

I think of Rose sitting at the café, waiting for me. How long will she wait before she assumes I’ve stood her up? Will she think it’s simply me being me? Flaking out on my goodbyes like I’ve done so many times in the past? Will she swallow her disappointment, pay for her coffee, and go back to her day-to-day life?

If anyone checks my bedroom, will they glance over the pristinely made bed and the vacuum tracks in the carpet and ignore the fact that my suitcase is still shoved in the closet?

My father will make the same assumption—I left without saying goodbye. And he won’t think twice if he doesn’t hear from me for the next six months.

And Jonah—I told him I’m coming back to Portland this week, but it’s not unusual to go a week at a time without checking in. By the time he realizes I’m missing, it’ll be too late.

The scents of cinnamon and maple syrup waft from the other side of the door. Campbell must be feeding Gigi breakfast . . . like it’s any other day, like she doesn’t have her husband’s ex locked away in another room like a crazy person.