Page 85 of I'm Watching You

Nothing moved.

And yet she had the feeling that someone was watching. Hugging her arms, she stared into the darkness inside her home. There was no one there.

She shoved stiff fingers through her hair. This was insane. She was driving herself nuts over what was likely a wrong number. She shut off the backyard light. ‘Too much caffeine.’

She opened the refrigerator and peered inside at the carton full of leftovers from the bistro. She opened the container of chocolate cake and sampled a piece. It melted in her mouth. After closing the door, she moved into the living room, switched on a light, and sat down. In the silence, she ate the cake, savoring every bite.

As she rose to pitch the takeout container in the the kitchen trash bin, she spotted the door under the stairs. Behind it was a small storage place where she kept a box of old pictures. She tossed the carton, wiped her hands, opened the door, and removed the worn box. She carried it to the couch, sat, and dug among the photos, careful to avoid the ones with Zack. She’d never organized or put the photos in an album, but she’d written dates and notes on the back of each.

There were pictures of Lindsay with her friend Joel.They were at the pool, smiling. Joel had his arm wrapped casually around her shoulder. She smiled as she traced Joel’s face. Joel and his dad had been the ones who’d gone back to the house after her mom died and gotten these photos and her clothes.

Going deeper in the photo box, she found a picture of herself as a baby. Other pictures of herself at swim and tennis meets with her father and mother smiling proudly behind her. They looked so happy. Picture perfect.

And yet, behind the smiles, there was tension in her parents’ eyes. Most wouldn’t have noticed it, but she did.

She found deeper in the box black and whites of her mother as a young girl before she’d married her father. Her mother had had a bright smile, dark wavy hair that set off her hazel eyes and peaches-and-cream complexion. In one photo, Lindsay’s mother stood with her older brother, who was fifteen years older than her mother. He looked to be about twenty-five in this photo. His arm was slung casually around her mother’s shoulders, and he wore a sailor’s uniform that accentuated his trim waist and broad shoulders. She had no memories of her uncle except for the rare story her mother told.

Buried at the bottom of the box were pictures of three-year-old Lindsay holding a baby boy. The child had been her younger brother; he had died of crib death when he was just seven months old. Her mother had rarely spoken about her brother, Bobby, but Lindsay knew the boy’s death had left a hole in both her parents’ hearts that had never healed.

Maybe if Bobby hadn’t died. Maybe if …

These stupid mind games weren’t going to change her past. It was what it was. A mess.

She dropped the pictures back in the box, unable to bear the sadness. She replaced the lid and put the box back in the closet under the stairs.

Suddenly very tired, she climbed the stairs and got into bed. The sheets felt cold against her skin. Despite her fatigue, her mind was restless.

She reached for the light. She’d searched the house and assured herself that she and Nicole were alone. And yet, she still felt as if someone stood over her.

Watching.

The Guardian checked Saunders’s bindings. Secure. The man lay unconscious, his arms and legs stretched wide and tied to stakes driven in the concrete floor.

After turning on the three TVs, the Guardian flipped on the evening news reports. He wanted to see what the press was saying about him.

The first two stations had nothing to report beyond that police were still trying to unravel the murder of a local attorney. He flipped to Channel 10 to see Kendall Shaw reporting.

… a troubled past marred by the violent murder of her mother. When I spoke with Lindsay O’Neil earlier this spring, she talked about her passion for saving women in abusive relationships. But Lindsay O’Neil harbored a dark secret. Her father, Frank Hines, a garage owner in Hanover, a church leader and well known in his community, routinely beat his wife – Lindsay’s mother.

Two days before Lindsay’s seventeenth birthday, Hines killed his wife and then shot himself.

Now exactly twelve years after the Hines murder/suicide, the body of a murdered man has been found behind the women’s shelter O’Neil created. The victim, Harold Turner, a local attorney, was seen just weeks ago arguing with O’Neil at a local fund-raiser.

Tension rippled through the Guardian’s body.

Kendall Shaw’s news report bordered on hateful. She’d all but called Lindsay a murderer.

Facts could suggest that O’Neil could have embarked on her own plan of revenge.

Kendall Shaw’s raw ambition had driven her too far. She was twisting facts to suit her own purposes. She was a liar and a manipulator and very much like the men who abused their wives. She abused the public trust with her half-truths and innuendo.

The Guardian turned back toward Saunders. He was out cold. No good. He needed to be awake.

He needed to feel pain.

A broken ammonia capsule waved under his nose woke Saunders instantly. Wide-eyed, the man stared around the room, trying to take in his surroundings. He muttered several foul words through his gag and tested the ropes that held him.

‘We’re in a basement, Mr Saunders. It’s very secluded. Very private.’

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