The Watcher Girl(58)
“You know, once I’m reported missing,” I say with the phony confidence of someone who fully believes she’ll be reported missing, “they’re going to connect the two of us. The police will figure out you were the last person with me. Plus, my rental car? It’s got a satellite locator. It’ll lead them here.”
I leave out the fact that Rose knows I’ve been talking to Campbell. I’m leaving her out of this—for her safety.
“One step ahead of you.” Campbell isn’t fazed. She doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t blink. “Of course your car is here. You’re obsessed with me. And my husband. You’re his delusional ex who flew three thousand miles across the country to try to get him back. You showed up at his work. You called and texted his wife. And when none of that worked, you kidnapped us at gunpoint and forced us here. Don’t worry. I’ve got ample evidence to show what a crazy bitch you are and how you refused to leave us alone.”
“So when the police arrive and find my rental car . . . and not me . . . what are you going to say then?”
“Oh, they’ll find you,” she says. “Right here. In this room. I had to defend myself. You were going to kill me. And my daughter.”
“Good luck proving self-defense when they find the rope burn on my wrists and ankles . . .”
Campbell squints out the window, quiet and contemplative. In all her scheming, did she not take that simple detail into consideration? The only alternative would be to march me out into the woods where no one would hear a thing, and then bury me in a shallow grave covered by branches and foliage, praying the elements and wildlife get to me before I’m discovered by some hiker or hunter.
But she wouldn’t leave her baby in the house alone.
Would she?
She’s about to say something when the crunch of tires on gravel commandeers her attention. Rushing to the window, she pushes the curtain aside and peers out. And then, shoving the gun into the back of her jeans, she says, “Don’t say a word.”
This visitor must be unanticipated, a possible wrench in her plan. But I stay quiet and listen. I know better than to get my hopes up. I’ve been burned before.
Closing the door with a soft click, Campbell leaves me alone once more.
On the other side of that door lies freedom . . . or death.
All I can do is wait.
CHAPTER 35
Two voices: one male, one female. The hushed, muffled arguing takes me back to my childhood, when my parents would throw on smiling, nonchalant faces and save their battles for the end of the night when doors were closed and children were supposed to be sleeping.
It’s impossible to decipher the words, but I’m familiar with the conversational rhythm of discord.
For a moment, I envision a scenario where Rose knew I wouldn’t stand her up, went to our father’s home, found my suitcase in the closet, and immediately called the police—but this is real life, and things don’t fall into place like perfectly placed rows of dominoes. From the time the police are contacted, it could take hours, if not days, to piece everything together. There would be questions and interviews—warrants to be signed off on before they could begin to locate my rental car or trace my cell phone activity to the nearest tower.
If it were a police officer at the door, Campbell wouldn’t be arguing with him.
She mentioned a friend who owns the cabin . . .
Shuffled footsteps outside the door tell me I won’t have to wonder much longer, and when it swings open a second later, I have my answer.
Campbell stands in front. Behind her, Sutton. Animosity colors her wild eyes, but his expression is unreadable. Indifferent. He isn’t here to save the day—at least not my day.
Sweat prickles along my hairline, and I force a thick swallow.
Campbell’s words play in my ear, silently reminding me of Sutton’s hatred.
The man has two choices in this moment—save the woman he hates, or cover for the woman he married so he can keep his family intact. If he chooses family—and he will—he’ll have no choice but to go along with his wife’s diabolical plan.
Sutton steps out from behind her, looming over the edge of the bed, his hands on the metal footboard. His prismatic gaze runs from my wrists to my ankles as he assesses the situation, and he releases a heavy breath.
“You’re not a killer,” I tell him. I keep my voice low, as if it’s just the two of us here, a subtle reminder of intimacy past, of a connection born a lifetime ago. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Yes, he does,” Campbell says from the doorway. She takes the spot next to her husband, her hand on his arm as she leans in. “It’s too late to back out. We have to do this.”
I know what she’s thinking—if they let me go, how can they be sure I won’t run to the police and tell them what happened? They can’t let me live. It’s a liability. It defeats the purpose of everything that led Campbell to this moment.
Sutton pinches the bridge of his nose. Rubs his eyes. I wish I knew what he thought this morning when he woke up to an empty bed, discovered an empty crib, and came upon his wife’s cell phone. I imagine him rushing to the garage to find her car resting in its stall—missing Gigi’s car seat in the back.
But how did he know she was here—of all places?
Campbell is a master manipulator. A skilled, cunning liar. If she lied about her abusive marriage, why wouldn’t she also lie about drugging him so she could leave?