The Watcher Girl(61)

“Can you just . . . do it?” I ask.

Twigs snap and leaves crunch under the weight of his footsteps.

“Keep walking,” he answers. “We’re not there yet.”

“I really am sorry for hurting you.” It’s funny how such a powerful word can lose its meaning the more you say it.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry . . .

“That’s all I came here to tell you,” I say, careful to choose my words. “I looked you up online, and I saw what your life had become . . . that you moved to my hometown, married a woman who looked like me, and named your daughter Grace. I was worried about you.”

He says nothing.

Leaves still crunch and twigs still snap, and we’re still marching on.

“Anyway, that’s all I came here to do. I didn’t mean to run into your wife or disrupt your life in any way.” I’m about to continue when something catches my eye ahead.

A dirt path trail.

No rocks, twigs, or leaves.

People hike here. Maybe we’re close to a state park?

I think of all the souls who have hiked these woods. Couples. Families. Adventurous loners. I think of all their wonderfully ordinary lives, all the things they still get to do . . . all the things I still want to do . . .

I don’t want to die.

This can’t be the end.

I stop in my tracks and turn to face him, my hand splayed over my thrashing heart, skin hot with adrenaline, shallow breaths filling my chest.

“You deserved better than a life with me,” I tell him.

Our gazes hold.

He keeps the gun trained on me—pointed toward my sternum—but he’s listening.

“I can’t sit still. I can’t stay in the same place for more than six months at a time or I go crazy,” I say. “Your parents live in the same house they bought when they were first married. That’s the kind of life you wanted. I can’t keep a houseplant alive. You wanted enough kids to fill a soccer team. The idea of being pregnant makes me physically ill. All you ever wanted was to be a father. I loved you, Sutton. And I never stopped. But my decision wasn’t—”

He lifts a palm. I silence my narrative.

“Grace. I know these things.” Sutton nods for me to turn around, motions for me to keep going. “We’re almost there.”





CHAPTER 39

The path is long out of sight. I’ve yet to see another human. We’ve walked for an hour, maybe, if I had to guess? Which puts us somewhere around two or three miles out from the cabin. Deep in the woods. A world away from civilization or anyone who could hear a gunshot or two.

The never-ending thicket of trees surrounding us is disorienting, but the way my thigh muscles ache tells me we’re on an incline. He wouldn’t shoot me on a hilltop, would he? The earth is rockier, harder to dig, the trees less dense.

A faint droning in the distance makes me glance up to the sky in search of an airplane, momentarily spiking my hope, until I’m met with that same clear-blue sky from before.

But the humming continues . . . louder, closer with each arduous trudge forward. We’re climbing higher, steeper into the hillside. While each step is harder than the one before, my muscles screaming for rest, I focus on the noise.

Noise means people.

He won’t shoot me if we’re not alone.

Twenty yards ahead, the tree line thins. I take longer strides, desperate to make it to the other side in search of life. He hasn’t noticed my increased pace. Not yet. The hard metal of his gun no longer presses into my back, and from my periphery, I notice there’s space between us for the first time.

He could swipe at me and miss, especially if I ran.

He told me not to get brave. But when have I ever listened to anyone?

My heart whooshes in my ears, pounding in my teeth, drubbing in my fingertips. The burn of adrenaline flushes through my veins. I promise myself I’m going to run from him or die trying, and I glance back one last time to make sure I’m still out of arm’s reach—only to find him standing still.

Eight, maybe ten feet separate us now.

His hand rests at his side, gun pointed at the ground and not me.

“You’re free, Grace.” He crouches, slowly, and places the handgun carefully on a bed of flattened leaves and broken sticks. “Go.”

I sprint.

I tear away from Sutton, nearly tripping over myself as I dash toward the top of the hill. He doesn’t chase me, but I run anyway. Faster, harder, ignoring the exhaustion that gnaws through me with each breathless second.

He let me go.

He let me go . . .

Adrenaline courses through me, reducing me to actions. I can’t think. I don’t have time to question why he’s done this.

I can only run for my life.

When I get to the top of the hill, there’s a guardrail, metal and chipped with red paint, and to my left, I spot a highway in the distance—the source of the strange noise from before.

And then I hear a voice.

A car door.

And another.

More voices.

Someone yells my name.

Beyond the guardrail, at the bottom of the incline, is a blacktop parking lot, along with a large wooden sign identifying this as SADIE MILES STATE PARK.

A county police car blocks the entrance, lights flashing but no sound.