The Watcher Girl by Kent Minka

Author:Kent, Minka
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Amazon
Published: 2021-05-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 15

There are people on the dark web who will do this sort of thing for a price—people who will scare the hell out of a piece-of-shit wifebeater or put the fear of God into a neglectful, drug-addicted mother. But I’ve never been one to leave my dirty work to strangers. Besides, can you really trust someone to accurately convey a message this important? This personal?

“Sutton Whitlock, please,” I say to his receptionist before she has a chance to greet me. My knuckles rap on the tall counter in front of her sunken desk. I recognize her voice from the other week, when she cheerfully provided me with his lunch hour and, later, happily patched me through to his office line.

She’s on the phone—I didn’t realize—but she asks them to hold and cradles the receiver on her shoulder.

“Is he expecting you?” Her hooded blue-gray gaze drifts toward her watch and then back, almost in slow motion. I realize it’s the end of the day. She’s anxious to go home, and Sutton’s likely finishing up a few things before clocking out, but I’m not leaving until we have words.

“He isn’t.” I force a friendly smile, though my lips are wavy, and I imagine my eyes are tinted a shade of batshit crazy. “I’m an old friend, and I’m only in town for a little while. Wanted to stop by and say hello before I left.”

The woman—the plaque on her desk identifies her as Deborah—doesn’t blink.

I point to her phone. “If you could page him . . . ?”

“He isn’t expecting anyone this afternoon. I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry you can’t . . . call him and let him know I’m here?” I resist the urge to snort or scoff, and there’s a fine line between being rude and being assertive. And making demands won’t get me what I want. “Was actually hoping to surprise him. He hasn’t seen me since college.”

Her eyes scan the length of me, at least the length she can see from behind her desk. I imagine she’s piecing together some internal monologue about an ex-flame showing up unexpected, hoping to woo back a former lover.

“Please, Deborah,” I say, using her name to make it more personal. “If you could tell him Grace is here. Grace McMullen. I promise he’ll want to see me.”

Line one blinks on her phone. Someone is still holding.

“You can finish that call first if you need to.” I point to the receiver on her shoulder. If I give a little, maybe she’ll give a little, too? “I’ll wait.”

Deborah finally blinks, clears her throat, and presses the flashing button. Fifteen seconds later, she’s sent the caller to someone’s voice mail and turned her attention back to me.

“Thank you so much.” I thank her for something she’s yet to agree to do—another psychological trick of the trade—and I cross my fingers.

With the phone flush against her left cheek, she punches in three numbers, keeping her stare trained on me.

“Sutton,” she says. “I have a visitor here to see you .

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