“When?”
“When you’re ready.”
“But I’m ready now.”
“Are you?”
Silence again. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m not ready.
Maybe I’ll never be ready.
I am a man obsessed.
I sit in my car up the street from Katherine Watts’s home, slunk low in the driver’s seat, so low I’m eye level with the steering wheel as I watch her house. There’s no movement, no car parked in the driveway, nothing happening whatsoever, and I’m antsy. I want to get closer, but not too close. She won’t recognize me if she’s there, if she happens upon me. I don’t want to scare her and I’m sure she’s jumpy. She could think I’m a reporter, trying to dig up some info.
It’s the perfect cover.
Hell, I shouldn’t be here. I promised myself I wouldn’t go to her house, that I wouldn’t try and catch a glimpse of her.
But here I am, lurking. Waiting. I just want to make sure she’s all right. That she’s safe. After the interview aired, I’m sure she’s had to deal with an overwhelming amount of media attention. It can’t be easy. Does she have a solid support system? Friends? Family? From watching her over and over again in that interview, I have the distinct feeling she’s lonely. Alone.
I can relate. And I hate that. Does she have that constant ache in the pit of her stomach? Does he haunt her at the darkest moments of the night, when she’s alone and vulnerable in her bed, memories wrapped up in a nightmare visiting her every chance they get?
I hope to hell not.
Restlessness makes my entire body feel like it’s one big twitching muscle and I give up trying to keep myself restrained in the car. It’s too small, too contained, and I feel like I’m sitting in a pressure cooker. Like I’ll explode and blast out of it at any given moment.
Patience has never been my strong suit.
So I climb out of the car and slowly start to walk along the sidewalk toward her house. My steps are measured, hands in the front pockets of my jeans, expression neutral, stance casual. I’m wearing a black pullover sweatshirt, sunglasses covering my eyes though the sun is weak. It’s quiet. Considering it’s just after eleven in the morning, I can assume most everyone is at work. With the exception of the older woman sitting on the front porch of the house that’s right next to Katherine Watts’s.
Her neighbor.
Shit.
I do my best not to look in her direction, keeping my head averted, though I’m dying to look at Katie’s house. I want to check out every detail possible so I can memorize it. Maybe discover a clue, a little glimpse into what makes Katie tick. I want to figure her out.
Desperately.
“Do you need any help, young man?”
Stopping, I turn to find the old lady perched on the edge of the porch swing, watching me with hawklike eyes, looking ready to pounce. I can sense a kindred spirit—she trusts no one, just like me. I bet she’s the lone member of the neighborhood watch on this street. “Hi.” I wave at her.
Her expression doesn’t waver. Not mean, but not overtly friendly, either. “Are you looking for someone?”
I point at Katie’s house. “I think I lived there when I was a kid.”
Her penciled-in eyebrows lift. “You think?”
“I’m pretty sure.” I flash her a friendly smile. “It was a long time ago.”
“Uh-huh. You don’t look that old.”
“Old enough to have some fuzzy memories.” I keep my smile planted firmly in place, but she’s having none of it.
She keeps studying me, assessing me. Probably thinks I’m up to no good.
That would be correct.
“In the mood to reminisce?” she asks. “Is that why you’re here? Don’t tell me you’re a reporter.”
I ignore the reporter remark. It might be the perfect cover, but I have a feeling this woman would drive me away in an instant if she suspected I was here snooping around. “Feeling melancholy.” That’s not too much of a lie. “Missing my mom.” It’s easier to pretend I miss her versus dear old dad.
“Aw, did you lose her?” Her expression doesn’t change much, so I don’t know if she’s sincerely sympathetic or not.
I nod, not sure if I’m lying or not. She never came forward, not even when all the shit hit the fan and Dad’s name and mug shot were broadcast all over the news. What woman wouldn’t reach out and try to contact her only child? I ended up in a foster home until I ran away when I was seventeen, not that my foster parents cared. They only wanted to collect the monthly checks.
Life was hell when I was with my father, and the hell continued on a lesser scale after I was pulled out of his house. I needed a hero. Someone to come rescue me, and I banked on my mother to be the one to do it. The reunion had played over and over again in my head during those years, but it never happened.
She was either a heartless bitch or dead. I prefer to think she’s dead.
It’s easier that way.
“That’s a shame.” The old woman’s expression never, ever wavers. I’m impressed. “I don’t remember any family with a young boy living in that house, son.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“Almost twenty years.”
Well, hell. She’d know. “Yeah? Well . . . thanks for the info.”
“Maybe you have the wrong house,” she suggests. “It could be on a different street close by. They all look pretty similar around here.”