The Watcher Girl(60)
CHAPTER 37
He leads me out of the guest room, the nose of the handgun pressed against the small of my back. The door to the other bedroom is closed. Campbell sings to Gigi, a familiar nursery rhyme I can’t place, one I’m certain Daphne sang to me once upon a time.
The air is fresher in the hallway, breezier in the living room. Curtains dance in front of open windows in the kitchen, sunlight pouring in. Dirty dishes rest in a bubble-filled sink, and I catch a whiff of green apple soap.
Never in my life have I craved the ordinary, the everyday, the mundane . . . as much as I do in this moment.
He told me not to get brave.
He told me not to run. I couldn’t if I tried—the intense build of pressure in my bladder makes it nearly impossible to so much as walk.
“Can I use the bathroom?” I ask. “Please. I haven’t gone since last night, and it’s really hard to walk like this . . .”
It’s a silly if not pointless request because I know what happens when you die. I know bodily fluids seep, no longer held by muscles and functions. But every minute I delay this is another minute Sutton has to come to his senses.
He pushes a breath through flared nostrils and doesn’t agree—at first.
“Please,” I whisper.
His hand loops into my elbow, and he leads me back to the hallway, where he examines the bathroom, removing a men’s razor from a drawer—as if I could possibly defend myself with that. He closes me in the windowless room, and I shove my pants down with seconds to spare.
I’ve barely flushed when he knocks and asks if I’m almost done.
I wash my hands with soap that smells of lavender and honey—another silly, pointless endeavor in the grand scheme of things—and give myself one final look in the clouded, vintage mirror that hangs above the sink.
My skin is sallow, and my hair hangs limp around my face. I tuck it behind my ears. I think about splashing water on my face—one final slice of something normal before I die, but he knocks again.
Harder.
“What are you doing in there?” His voice is so clear and cutting he might as well be in here with me.
I take a deep breath and return to the hall.
“Thank you,” I say because I need to humanize us in this moment. “I feel much better.”
He nods toward the front door and positions the handgun against my back once more. “Get your shoes on. It’s time to go. And don’t ask me to stop again.”
A minute later, I’m halfway between where the cabin ends and the forest begins, marching to my fate.
CHAPTER 38
It’s a good day to die—if there were such a thing.
Sunlight trickles through heavy treetops. Birds sing. The sky is a pristine blue, not too dark, not too light, not a cloud to be found. I can’t recall a time when I’ve felt more alive, so aware, so present . . . than I do in this moment.
Life has a twisted sense of humor that way.
Tall weeds scratch my exposed ankles, but I deem that the least of my problems.
We make our own path through the woods, stepping over mossy rocks and ropelike tree roots, ducking under branches. Me first. Always. His presence is weighted, palpable. I don’t have to turn around to know he’s there, holding the gun steady on my back.
If I’m lucky, he’ll fire off a round without warning.
He’ll make it quick.
I can’t imagine he wants to draw this out longer than necessary. Despite his stoic expression and the void of compassion in his words, I know he wants this to be over as much as I do.
Then again, I spent eight years clueless as to how much our breakup mentally tortured him. I was living my life, flitting from city to city collecting experiences and tethering myself to nothing and no one . . . while he was trying to make a life for himself in the cold shadows of what might have been.
I swallow the lump in my throat, realizing I may not know him as well as I thought.
There was an article on the dark web once, a man describing the difference between male and female murderers. Not unlike sex, men prefer to watch the face of the other person in the midst of all the action. Women, statistically, are more likely to sneak up from behind or to poison their victim. The less mess, the less noise, the less fanfare, the better.
I think of the snuff films I’ve seen—the real ones, not the fake ones bored film-school assholes post, hoping their project looks real enough to get a reaction from some stranger on the other side of the world. I think of the dirt. The blood. The gore.
Does Sutton have the stomach for what he’s about to do? We went fishing once, a lifetime ago, and the mere act of baiting the hook sent the color from his face.
The scent of earth fills my lungs.
I try to focus on that.
We approach a small incline, and my legs ache. I’m certain we’ve been walking forever. Above, a hawk soars over the trees. I picture a stream nearby. A brook with clear water. Something peaceful.
I want my last thoughts on this earth to be beautiful, and if that’s not possible, then at least neutral. I refuse to die screaming, crying, terrified.
My lower lip quivers, an indication that my mind and body are on two separate pages. Even if I don’t want to die in a mess of tears, I may not have a choice. It’s human nature, the urge to constantly control. I cut myself slack. It might be the last time I have a chance to do so.