Page 52 of Passerby: A Psychological Thriller

“I hope you won’t let me down, Roy,” I say, leaning into his open window. “Because you know what they say—” I pause and raise my brow suggestively.

“What do they say?”

“You can lead a horse to water. But you can’t make ‘em drink.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

Ruth

I’m sitting on the screened-in porch waiting for Roy to call. I have to believe he’ll pull through, even though it’s possible I’ve already obtained everything I need. Nevertheless, this is war, and in war not only do you have to be smart, you have to come at things from all angles. So I’m sitting and I’m praying and I’m contemplating my next move when I look up and see the little girl from next door in my garden again.

She’s running through the yard, going from bed to bed, picking petal after petal. When her hand is full, she drops them into a tiny purse.

“Lily!” I call her name because her attacks on my garden are beginning to feel personal. I hop off the rocker and take deep strides in her direction. She doesn’t stop picking.

“Lily,” I say, touching her shoulder. “Stop.”

“My daddy said it’s okay,” she tells me without turning around.

“Well, it’s not okay. This is private property, and what you’re doing is trespassing. And that is against the law.”

She spins on her heel. “What does tres-pass-ing mean?”

“It means you’re somewhere you don’t belong.”

She looks at me with a confused expression. “My daddy doesn’t lie.”

“Clearly, he does.” I glance toward her house. “Where is your daddy, anyway?”

“He’s not home right now.”

“Where’s your mother?”

“She’s upstairs.” She says this matter-of-factly, as though she doesn’t have a care in the world.

“You need to go home. You shouldn’t be outside by yourself.”

“But I like it here.” Her tone is sulky, but there’s something more there. It’s like she’s already learned what she’ll need to know to survive in this world as a woman. How to be manipulative. “And Daddy said he’s buying this house. So I can play in the garden anytime I want.”

Finally, I get the chance to speak with Ashley alone. Sure, it’s only because I corner her in the wine cellar. “How do you know the people next door?”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“I don’t,” she answers with her bottom lip jutted out. It’s like looking at the little girl next door all grown up. “But I saw you making out with the cop.”

“So?”

“So. He’s not your type.”

“You haven’t been around long enough to know my type.”

“What about Ryan?”

“What about him?”

“I’m working my ass off to get him here—to deliver him straight to you—and meanwhile you’re trying to screw every guy in town.”

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