The Watched Girl

by Rachel Rust

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Josh was playing a first-person shooter game when I walked in through the back door. The gunfire noise tensed my muscles. Far too realistic.

  Josh paused his game and turned to look at me, laughing. “I hear you busted some water pipes at Camp Coyote. Way to go, genius.”

  Normally, I would have retorted with a snotty comeback. But standing there, exhausted from the past week and staring at his black-brown hair and hazel eyes similar to mine, I couldn’t bring myself to say anything mean to him. Sure, the day would likely come when he annoyed me again and I picked up where I had left off, but that day was not today.

  “Where’s Dad?”

  “He’s working late.” Josh scanned my clothes which were sweat-stained and full of dirt. “Jesus, you really were roughin’ it, weren’t you? Did they have you sleeping outdoors? I thought that place had cabins.”

  My feet shuffled his way, and his eyes grew large. I reached over the back of the sofa and hugged him around the neck before he could pull away.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” he asked, yanking my arms off him. “And good God, you need a shower.” He turned back to the TV and continued his game. I stared at the back of his head and mouthed, I love you. Because I did. My hand smacked him upside the head before I walked away.

  I went upstairs and took the longest shower of my life. The water and soap washed away the dirt and sweat, but the memories and emotions stuck to me like glue. Tears streamed down my face as I crouched into the corner of the shower. The water was hot, but the cool tiles under me sent shivers through my body, as I wondered where Eddie was. Was he okay? Had Sergei found him? Was he dead somewhere?

  Having no answers gnawed at my sanity.

  After showering, I put on leggings and an oversized t-shirt. The sky outside my window was growing dark. If Eddie was on the lam, where would he sleep tonight? Did he have money? Where would he find food? Nonstop worries twisted my brain and stomach as my feet paced my bedroom.

  The backdoor opened downstairs and my father’s voice drifted up into my room. I flung my bedroom door open and ran downstairs.

  I found him in the kitchen, unpacking groceries. I stood in the doorway, watching him for a while. Dressed in the usual black slacks and button-down shirt he wore to work, he looked exactly as he always had. His black hair, peppered with white, was parted slightly. Short and well-coiffed.

  “Hi, Dad,” I said.

  He glanced over with a surprised look on his face. “I didn’t know you were home yet.”

  The moment his eyes caught mine, I had to fight back tears. But I couldn’t fight my feet, which shuffled quickly to him, or my arms which latched around his torso.

  He hugged me back, placing a hand on my head that was now pressed against his chest. “Nat, what’s wrong?”

  I couldn’t speak. I wanted to inhale him, the smell of home and safety and comfort. The dad who had been there for me, even when I was snotty to him, even when we disagreed on almost everything. The dad who stuck with us after our mom ditched out. The dad who loved me even more than I probably understood.

  “I love you, Daddy.” I didn’t know the last time I had called him Daddy.

  “I love you, too. Is everything okay?”

  No! Nothing was okay.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  “Sorry for what?” he asked. “Natalie, what’s going on?”

  I’m sorry for lying to you and almost getting myself killed.

  My mind scrambled to explain my abrupt, weird attachment to him. As far as he knew, I had spent the last week outdoors with grade schoolers, going on hikes, swimming in lakes, and making shitty crafts. No part of that warranted a kitchen meltdown in his arms.

  “I’m sorry… I have to tell you something.” Shit. The only thing that came to mind to explain my behavior, without having to tell him the truth about my hotel stay, was the one conversation I did not want to have.

  “Tell me what?” he asked, taking my arms in his hands and pushing me away enough to see my tear-streaked face. “Whatever it is, just tell me, Nat.”

  I wiped the waterworks away and took a deep breath. “I’m not…” Another deep breath. “I’m not going into pre-med.” Despite the horrific, life-threatening predicaments I had been in over the past week, those words to my dad were still terrifying. I couldn’t look him in the face, instead I stared at the button on his shirt right in front of me. It was light-blue, stitched with an identically colored thread.

  “What do you want to major in?” he asked, his voice neither angry nor concerned.

  “I don’t know yet.” The button had four holes.

  He hooked a finger under my chin and raised my gaze to his. His hazel eyes stared back at mine. “Why the tears?”

  “I thought you’d be mad.”

  “Well, I’m surprised. But I’m not mad.”

  “You’re not?”

  “No.”

  “But you’ve always assumed I’d be a doctor like you. And now I’m messing up those plans.”

  “Look, Natalie, you’re smart. There are a hundred and one things you could do, and you’d do any of them really well. I just don’t want to see you get lax and throw away any opportunities. Columbia is going to expect a lot of you, including some hard decisions about your career goals.”

  I nodded, feeling a familiar comfort in his imminent lecture. He was going to say things like a good GPA isn’t deserved, it’s earned. And the working world isn’t as patient as the academic world. And once in college, I’ll be surrounded by other brilliant people and will have to find my own way of standing out.

  I braced myself for the rest of his speech.

  Except it didn’t come. Instead of saying any more, he hugged me tight and kissed the top of my head. “I’m proud of you, Natalie.”

  Josh walked into the kitchen and his bowl of popcorn crashed onto the floor. “Shit.” He bent down to scoop up the kernels and dropped his phone. “Shit.” After cleaning up the popcorn mess, he continued to eat it out of the bowl, wiping his greasy hands on his t-shirt.

  Of course, my dad was proud of me. It’s not like I had much competition in the family. My dad sighed quietly over my head, but said nothing about my dumbass brother. Though there were surely thoughts floating around his head, wondering how it was possible his DNA could produce two totally different kids.

  “Oh, um, here,” I said, pulling the fake Camp Coyote business card from my pocket. “You can call this guy if you have any questions about the camp stuff.”

  My dad took the card and looked it over. “Okay.” He shoved it into his wallet. “How about we order pizza and watch a movie?”

  “Sounds good,” Josh said and then poured the remaining popcorn into his mouth from the bowl. Half of it landed by his feet.

  Forty-five minutes later, the three of us were in the living room, eating pepperoni pizza and watching some movie about a woman who fled the US after being framed for assassinating the President.

  The pizza was a good idea, and sitting in my familiar living room, surrounded by my dad and Josh, my appetite came rushing in. I ate four slices, ignoring Josh’s Miss Piggy comments.

  The movie would have been good, except it hit a little too close to home. The woman in the movie was a Marine, not FBI, and her name was Nina, not Eddie. But it might as well have been Eddie himself that I was watching on the screen. People didn’t believe her, accusing her of conspiring with an international spy ring, and killing her own people.

  My mind spun in all directions throughout the two-hour film, and I missed most of the nuanced bits of plot. In the end, the woman cleared her name and killed the double-agent who had set her up. The woman won.

  Of course, she did. It was a movie, not real life. In real life, things were messy and bloody and came with no guarantees.

  After the movie, I collected the dirty dishes and gave my dad another tight hug before heading upstairs.

  Once in my bedroom, I didn’t go to sl
eep. I called the FBI.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The woman who answered the FBI line sounded like she could have been working in a bank or some other boring office. I asked for Special Agent in Charge Emily Thatcher, and of course I was told she was unavailable.

  “Would you like to leave a message?” Her voice was way too calm and chipper. I wanted to punch her in the face through the phone. Nothing right now warranted a chipper attitude, and she was pissing me off.

  “Yes,” I said. “Tell her to call Natalie Mancini. Tell her it’s an emergency.”

  “Ma’am, if it’s an emergency situation, I suggest you dial 911.”

  I rolled my eyes. “No, not an emergency like that. It’s more like … urgent that I speak with her immediately.”

  “And what matter do you need to discuss with her?”

  None of your business. I took a deep breath and decided to be open and honest. “It’s about Eddie Martinez.”

  There was a pause and I assumed she was writing down his name.

  “Okay, I will get the message to Emily Thatcher. Anything else you need?”

  Yes. I need Eddie Martinez. Here, now, with me.

  “No, that’s it. Thanks.” I hung up before she could say anything else.

  I lay in bed, wide awake as the night faded into early morning. Purple skies infiltrated the blinds of my bedroom window. Once eight AM rolled around, I called the FBI again and left another message for Thatcher. I thought about asking for someone else, but Han was dead and he was the only other agent I knew. There was Krissy, the agent-maid at the hotel who Eddie had worked with a few weeks ago, but I didn’t know her last name. And there was Lip Licker Michael who had escorted me to the gala, but I didn’t know his last name either.

  My intel-gathering skills were not very good.

  I decided to call the only other person I could think of. Detective Wilson.

  There was no real Detective Wilson, but at least Thatcher and the task force would get the message and know that I really needed to speak to them.

  I dialed the main number for the Rapid City Police Department. A man answered, and I asked for Detective Wilson. There was a bit of murmuring and he asked me to hold for a moment.

  When he came back on the line, he asked, “I’m sorry, did you say Detective Wilson?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sorry, we don’t have a Detective Wilson here.”

  My jaw clenched. Son of a bitch. Thatcher must’ve closed her fake Detective Wilson line of communication. Leaving me with squat.

  “I must have the name wrong, sorry.” I ended the call and threw my phone onto my bed. First, I couldn’t get rid of the FBI presence in my life, stuck in a hotel suite, and now they were nowhere to be found, as if they had all disappeared.

  I fell back onto my bed and closed my eyes. I was drowning. Drowning in confusion, heart ache, fear, anger. I was being ignored by the FBI. In their minds, they had nothing to tell me, and I had nothing important that they needed to know. Just a stupid nineteen-year-old girl, no longer any use to them.

  I pulled my covers over my head. “Fuck.”

  ****

  I spent the next three days lying around in my pajamas, making relentless calls to the FBI. So many in fact that I thought an agent might show up on my doorstep, telling me to knock it off. But I kept calling because having an agent on my doorstep would actually be an improvement in the lack of communication.

  Thatcher hadn’t contacted me. Nor had anyone else. And there was still no Detective Wilson at the police station.

  I thought about that movie I had watched with Josh and my dad. The woman who had cleared her name didn’t do it on her own. She had help. And she didn’t only rely on the good guys for that help.

  I sat up with a start. A new plan bubbled in my mind—I knew how to find Eddie. If the FBI wasn’t willing to share its knowledge and resources, I’d find someone else who would. It was an idiotic plan, but better than anything else in that moment. I threw on jeans and a t-shirt, brushed my teeth, and piled my messy hair on top of my head.

  “I’m going out,” I said to no one in particular, grabbing my keys off the kitchen counter. I hadn’t driven my car in nearly two weeks. The smell of cheap leather and the strawberry air freshener was a welcome familiarity. She started right up, and fifteen minutes later we were in the mall parking lot.

  I stepped into a wide mall hallway and looked around. It was Friday afternoon. Semi-busy with a handful of people walking in either direction. I passed by the food court where Luke and his flaming red hair waited in line for a cheap slice of pizza. I was thankful he didn’t notice me.

  I walked past the November doorway, using an old couple as a shield to hide myself from Angela who stood by the registers. I had been meaning to call her, to set up a new work schedule, but my doom and gloom had kept me from feeling overly productive.

  Once past the store front, I zoomed in front of the old couple, my head moving back and forth, looking in all directions.

  Where is he?

  Around the next corner, I finally saw him—Shawn with his short dark hair, mall security uniform, and hands rested on his utility belt. He was walking past the small kids’ carousel. A little boy in blue overalls waved to him. He waved back.

  I ran to him.

  “Natalie,” he said with a big smile, looking down at me from his ridiculous height. “You’re back. I heard you took a job at some camp.”

  I waved my hand. “I did, but it didn’t work out. Long story.” I glanced around and then whispered, “I need your help.”

  His eyes lit up. “With what?”

  “You’re into this whole law enforcement thing, right?”

  “Yeah, totally. Why?”

  “I need your help finding someone who doesn’t want to be found.”

  Shawn’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

  “A guy who … owes me some money.” I didn’t want to lie to him, but it was safer for him to not know the details.

  “A guy who owes you money. What’s his name?”

  “I only have an alias.”

  He raised an eyebrow, waiting patiently.

  “Brandon Sabato.”

  Shawn checked his phone. “I have lunch in twenty minutes. Wanna meet me in the food court?”

  I smiled. “Absolutely.”

  We parted ways. I scurried back past November, pausing to hide behind a tall green plant to avoid being seen by Luke who was walking the other direction with a plateful of pizza.

  Back at the food court, I chose a small table near the back, next to Subway. When Shawn arrived, I waited for him as he ordered a sub. He offered to buy me one, but I couldn’t eat. Having too many thoughts spinning in my head shut down my digestive system.

  He sat down and unfolded the wrapper around his sub. “Okay, who is this Brandon guy you need to find?

  “Brandon Sabato. He’s just a guy who owes me money.”

  Shawn took a bite and smiled. “If you want my help, you need to start by telling me the truth.”

  I stared at him, dumbfounded. “I am telling you the truth.”

  He shook his head. “Normal guys who owe you money don’t have aliases.”

  Shit. But my annoyance over being outsmarted was replaced with optimism. Maybe Shawn was good at this law enforcement stuff. Maybe he really could help me.

  I leaned forward, elbows on the table. “How long is your lunch break?”

  “Thirty minutes.”

  He had spent nearly five getting his food. Twenty-five minutes left. “Okay, I’ll talk fast.”

  I told him everything.

  Everything.

  From the school assignment that had paired me up with Eddie, to my kidnapping in Wyoming, to the hotel suite, to Eddie’s disappearance.

  I left nothing out. As the words flowed out, I couldn’t stop them and I didn’t want to. I was tired of holding everything in. Tired of pretending to be normal on the outside when on the inside I was a mess of emotions, confusion and
loneliness.

  “Jesus Christ,” is all Shawn said when I finished my story.

  “Yeah, no shit. It’s crazy, but it’s all true.”

  “Why do you wanna find this Brandon guy if he’s the one who kidnapped you?”

  “I think he might know where Eddie is.” It was a lie. Brandon probably didn’t know where Eddie was, and that didn’t matter because I had a different reason for wanting to contact Brandon. But it was a reason Shawn couldn’t know about because he would have tried to talk me out of it—like any sane person would.

  “You don’t know his real name?” Shawn asked.

  “No. But he shopped at November before and had a Brandon Sabato credit card. So, my guess is that’s the name he uses in public.”

  Shawn looked around the food court, deep in thought. “What kind of hair does he have?”

  My eyebrows scrunched down. “Brown. Why?”

  “No, I mean, what kind of hair cut? Short? Long? Military cut?”

  “Short. Normal-looking, I guess.”

  “Then he gets regular haircuts.”

  “Yeah, so what?”

  Shawn looked right at me. “He has to have appointments somewhere. He gets his hair cut, maybe he has a pet who’s registered at a vet clinic somewhere, or he eats at nice restaurants and has reservations. It’s Friday today. Date night. Someone somewhere has a Brandon Sabato in their system. If we find an appointment under his name, we’ll have a time and place to find him.”

  I smiled at Shawn and stole a barbeque chip from his bag, making him laugh. “You’re a genius.” I tossed the chip into my mouth, suddenly feeling my appetite revving up. “What time do you get off work?”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Shawn rang the doorbell a few minutes after five o’clock. I flew downstairs, barely feeling the steps, but Josh got to the door before me.

  “Can I help you?” he said to Shawn, in his most annoying dad-like voice.

  I elbowed him out of the way and opened the door wider. Shawn looked totally different out of his security uniform. Dressed in jeans and a blue t-shirt, he looked like a regular guy. His brown hair and brown eyes seemed darker when not under the bright mall lights. He’d almost be cute, if not for the eyes of Eddie constantly staring back at me in my mind.