The Memory Watcher - A Psychological Thriller

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The Memory Watcher - A Psychological Thriller Page 19

by Minka Kent


  “Of course. They’re little angels,” I say. I don’t tell him I’m tired and I’m going to sleep like a rock tonight, because I don’t mind. Honestly. I love this. I’m deliriously, pleasantly exhausted. But my legs and lung and arms and back need a breather. I lift Sebastian up the ladder and he runs to a nearby lounger, wrapping himself up in a Grecian-striped towel. Climbing the ladder next, water rushes off me in rivulets and the weight of gravity takes a hold of me. For a split second, I almost lose my balance, but Graham is there, hooking his arm into my elbow and pulling me into him so I don’t fall.

  I’m embarrassed.

  And also, transfixed in his calming oceanic gaze.

  “You all right?” he asks, peering down his nose with a concerned stare.

  “I’m fine,” I assure him. “We’ve been in the water all day. I’m probably just a little dehydrated.”

  I leave his side and go to my water bottle, which is resting on a teak table between two cabana-style loungers. I swig and gulp until my stomach is full, and my eyes never leave Rose and Grace for one second.

  I’m a good nanny.

  When I turn to face Graham again, I catch his stare resting in a place it doesn’t belong. It’s only for a fraction of a second, and for a moment, I wonder if I’m imagining things, but then he smiles and mutters something about it looking like it’s about to rain, and then he turns to his children.

  My hand slicks down the side of my modest, black one-piece. I went with something conservative, because a nanny should never steal the show, and showing up with some glitzy gold bikini is more like something Marnie Gotlieb would do.

  This thing leaves plenty to the imagination, and there was Graham. Imagining . . . something.

  I don’t want to believe it.

  I don’t want to believe he has eyes for anyone but Daphne.

  She’s a good wife. A great mother. She’s his everything. And he is her whole world. They have a marriage for the ages, and a beautiful family to show for it.

  He must have been lost in thought, and his eyes just happened to be on my ass.

  “All right, I’m headed back to the office,” Graham announces. “Autumn, when you see my wife, can you please remind her I won’t be home for dinner tonight? I’ve got a conference call with China at seven o’clock.”

  “Of course.”

  Thirty-Six

  Daphne

  The house is dark and still, and I swirl a finger of bourbon in my left hand while checking my Instaface feed for the day.

  Graham is back to “working late.”

  That didn’t last long.

  Closing my eyes and sinking into my chair, I picture him with her, and I imagine they’re both conspiring to drive me to the point of insanity. And some days it feels as though it’s working.

  My phone vibrates and a text message displays across the screen.

  Mitch.

  My heart rate quickens. That thing we did . . . it was a one-time thing. But he’s been texting me almost daily, telling me how tight I was, how wet I was, telling me all the dirty things he wants to do to me again.

  I think he’s a lot better in his head than he is in real life, but I don’t want to be the one to tell him that.

  My thumb drags across the screen, and I close out of Instaface and pull up my messages.

  FINALLY GOT HER NAME, he writes. YOU STILL WANT IT? GOT HER ADDRESS TOO.

  Thirty-Seven

  Autumn

  Ben grunts and groans, pushing himself inside me, his body shaking and quivering before his grand finale. He doesn’t ask if I’m close. Never has. Probably never will. I used to think he was oblivious. Now I know he just doesn’t care. And why would he? Our relationship has been about him from day one. From the moment we met.

  He finishes, his face buried into my neck because he’s never been one for eye contact during sex.

  I sink into the bed we share, pretending to be spent because it was sooooo good, and he smiles his proud, puppy dog smile before hitting the shower.

  Once a quarter Ben travels to Tulsa, Oklahoma for work, and once a quarter we have goodbye sex, which is when we have sex and I whisper in his ear how much I’m going to miss him and it makes him feel loved and special.

  As soon as I summon the strength, I join him in the shower, purely for efficiency reasons, and he uses that as an excuse to cop a few more feels.

  “I love that you’re back to your old self again,” he says, his hand on my left breast like it’s no big deal. He has yet to say anything about how toned and tan my body’s been looking lately, and I wonder if he’s even noticed. I’ve been nannying for the McMullens for two full weeks now, and lately every afternoon’s been spent poolside.

  “I love my new job,” I say. And it’s true. I love this job.

  “What’s going to happen when summer’s over?” he asks.

  I feel my smile melt from my lips.

  I haven’t thought that far ahead.

  My hope is that I become a sort of babysitter-on-standby. Maybe they’ll need me after school? Maybe Graham and Daphne will take more trips and they’ll need someone to watch the children overnight? Maybe since we’re neighbors, we’ll become sort of . . . friends?

  The possibilities are endless.

  “We’ll deal with that when the time comes,” I say.

  “I just don’t want you to go back to the way you were before.” He plops a handful of shampoo into his palm and lathers his hair with brute force. I wonder if anyone’s ever shown him the proper way to bathe himself or if he’ll forever shower like an uncoordinated orangutan.

  “Back to the way I was before?”

  “Moody. Sad. Closed off. Annoyed with me all the time.” He laughs, as if my blue phase was comedic. “It was like it was that time of the month twenty-four seven.”

  Ha, ha, ha. Women and their hormones! Hilarious.

  “I’m so sorry I put you through that.” I’ve learned over the last two years that sometimes the best way to deal with Ben is to say the opposite of what I really want to say.

  “It’s okay, babe.” He turns to face me, depositing a damp kiss on my mouth. “I still love you. Always will.”

  “Love you too.”

  He washes his body and steps out, leaving the water running for me. When he starts humming Sweet Caroline, I have to tune him out. Not because of the song. The song is fine. But the man can’t hold a note to save his life.

  And to think, I used to find that endearing.

  There was a point, earlier in our relationship, when I really did like Ben. And I genuinely felt lucky to be with him. I loved his lack of complexities. It was refreshing. Different. Safe. But now I feel nothing. I feel nothing, and I feel trapped.

  We finish getting ready together, making small talk, and bumping shoulders in our tight bathroom. By the time I slip into my jeans, he’s wheeling his suitcase down the hall. His flight leaves in two hours and the airport is thirty minutes away. I hate how close he always cuts it. One traffic jam could cause him to miss his entire flight, and I’m really looking forward to some alone time this week. These quarterly trips are my breathers from Ben.

  I meet him by the front door when I’m ready, and he kisses me on the mouth then slips me the tongue because there’s nothing like a Monday-morning make out sesh to kick off the week.

  “I’m going to miss you,” he says, his lips grazing mine. He’s trying to be sweet. And it is sweet. I’ll give him that. He presses his forehead against my forehead and smiles his goofy Ben smile. “Love you, babe.”

  He gets like this anytime he travels. He acts like we’re never going to see each other again, and he needs to make damn sure I know he loves me and I love him. It’s as if he thinks he’s going to return to some kind of toxic wasteland where our happy home once was.

  For as carefree as this man claims to be, he worries too much.

  “Love you too,” I say, slapping my hand on his broad shoulder. “You should get going. You’re going to miss your flight.”r />
  He twists the door knob, shooting me a lingering look, and then he’s gone. And I’m smiling. And I feel evil for it. He may annoy the hell out of me, but I’m not soulless. I’m not a monster.

  I’m only human.

  When Daphne opens the front door, her hand is motioning for me to hurry up, and she almost slams the door behind me. Someone is crying in the next room.

  Grace.

  Daphne checks her watch, her brows arching. “I’m going to be late.”

  A coldness runs through me.

  “Did I miss something?” I ask. “Was I supposed to be here earlier than nine today?”

  “No, no.” She places her hand on my shoulder, her eyes suddenly merciful. “My acupuncturist messed up my appointment. It was supposed to be for nine thirty and they set it for nine, and it takes ten minutes to get to that side of town, so I’m just . . . ugh. It’s been one of those mornings.”

  I feel you, Daphne.

  I wonder if she and Graham ever make love in the morning, and if they’re really into it. I wonder if he asks if she’s close and if he looks into her eyes and if she smiles when he kisses her and if her heart aches when she sees him leave.

  “I’ll be out most of the morning,” she says, sliding her purse over her shoulder. “I’ve got errands to run, and then I’m meeting a friend for lunch in the city.”

  Grace is still crying.

  As soon as Daphne leaves, I’ll go to her. I’ll wrap my arms around her, and I’ll tell her she can talk to me about anything. I’ll listen. Daphne seems too busy to listen this morning.

  “Are the kids okay?” I ask.

  Daphne’s expression falls, as if I’ve shoved my nose too far up the wrong side of her business.

  “Oh.” She laughs. Then rolls her eyes. “The crying. Yes. Grace clearly woke up on the wrong side of the bed today. Monday mornings are always rough, aren’t they?”

  I bite my tongue and everything flashes red for a second. She isn’t going to ask what’s wrong? She thinks her daughter’s just having a Monday morning fit?

  There’s a small corner of my heart that’s shattering as we stand here, bathed in sunlight in the McMullens’ foyer.

  I know what it’s like to be the emotionally neglected daughter. To have a mother too preoccupied with everything else to take the time from her busy schedule with you as you cry.

  “All right,” Daphne says. “Anything you need before I go?”

  I press my lips together, stare up at the two-story ceiling, and then shake my head. “I think we’re good, Mrs. McMullen.”

  She still hasn’t told me to call her Daphne, and I haven’t asked. I’ve yet to call either of them by their first names, opting to not use a name at all when I speak to them most of the time. How are they ever supposed to see me as an extension of their family with all of these constant formalities?

  The second Daphne leaves, I follow the sound of Grace’s cries into the family room. Rose is sitting quietly on the end of the sofa, reading an Amelia Bedelia book, and Sebastian is sitting quietly on the opposite end, playing an educational game on his tablet. Grace’s cries die down when she sees me, and tear tracks line her chubby cheeks. Before I have a chance to ask what’s wrong, she lunges toward me, landing in my arms. Her little hands lock behind my back and she buries her face into my t-shirt.

  Running my fingers through her hair, I ask in my best motherly tone, “What is it, sweet girl? Why are you crying?”

  “Mommy and Daddy were fighting this morning,” she sobs.

  I watch the other two children, who are as oblivious as Ben is on the best of days. Maybe they’re too young to notice. Or maybe Grace heard something because her room is so close to the master suite.

  “Sometimes grown-ups fight,” I say, my voice a gentle whisper. “It’s nothing to cry about.”

  “But my Mommy and Daddy never fight,” she says, sniffing. “My friend Alexis said when her mommy and daddy fought, they got a divorce. I don’t want my parents to get a divorce.”

  I lead her to the sofa and sit her down beside me, keeping her hand in mine. “Your parents won’t . . .” I don’t want to use the D-word in case the other two hear it and repeat it later on.

  “How do you know?”

  “Did they say it?”

  “No.” She scratches her nose, and I tuck a strand of loose brown hair behind her ear.

  “If they didn’t say it, then you have nothing to worry about,” I make a promise to my daughter I have no business making. But I can’t have her worrying. I can’t stand to see her sad, heartbroken.

  I gave her up so she could have a better life.

  This beautiful, innocent little soul deserves to be happy.

  She did nothing wrong.

  Our eyes hold, and I never want to let hers go. She reminds me so much of myself at that age. Young, carefree, blissfully unaware of reality looming on the horizon. Cupping her face in my hand, I smile.

  This is what Daphne should have done earlier.

  How hard is it to take two seconds from your morning routine and sit down with your crying daughter and ease her tiny little worries?

  Is Daphne really that selfish?

  I hope to God, for her sake, that she was just having an off day because nobody treats my daughter that way, especially not her own “mother.”

  Thirty-Eight

  Daphne

  Marnie Gotlieb.

  The homewrecker finally has a name.

  I expected something, I don’t know, prettier. Something younger? Britney or Caitlyn or the kind of name you’d see one of those god-awful reality shows about pregnant high schoolers.

  Her face doesn’t match her name. With a name like Marnie, I expected someone bookish, maybe Harvard educated. A schoolteacher with a married man fetish, I don’t know.

  But that isn’t her at all.

  I spent all day watching, seeing where she went and what she did and who she was with. It’s amazing what all you can learn just by observing someone. Marnie started her day at the gym, and she’s one of those girls who works out in a full face of makeup and an itty-bitty hot purple sports bra with matching booty shorts. After the gym she went home, and she emerged two hours later, still with a full face of makeup, and headed to the Starbucks drive-thru. After she finished her coffee, she headed to the mall on the west side of town, disappearing into a department store entrance and coming out two hours later with an armful of bags and her phone plastered to her cheek. I’m not sure who she was talking to, but her face was pinched and as soon as she got to her car, she threw the bags into the passenger side with little care.

  From there, I followed her home to her little white townhouse. She disappeared inside all afternoon, which was the least interesting part of her day, but I took that time to do a little online research.

  According to the assessor’s page, her parents own her place. Her name isn’t anywhere on it. And according to LinkedIn, she graduated from college three years ago, but not without completing a semester-long internship at McMullen and Henry Corp.

  Graham does like convenience.

  Her resume is scant, and she doesn’t appear to have ever held a real job. Mostly internships and volunteer work. I don’t see a single award or scholarship listed, and her connections are extremely limited.

  Marnie’s Instaface profile is wide open and under her full name, @marniegotlieb, so it was ridiculously easy to find. I scroll through over five hundred photos, ninety-three percent of them selfies or flat lays of random things she bought at the store mixed in with designer sunglasses and tubes of expensive lipstick.

  Unoriginal.

  I breathe a sigh of relief when I get to the last photo and can confirm that there are none of the two of them together. At least there’s that.

  I sit my phone aside after a couple hours. Marnie still hasn’t left her townhome, and I check my watch. I need to get home soon and relieve Autumn.

  That Autumn is a saint, truly. I couldn’t have picked a better nanny fo
r my children. Graham, shockingly, knocked that one out of the park. They adore her. Sometimes I think they might even like her more than they like me. And she’s so good. She’s so observant and respectful. She makes the kids mind their manners, and she never feeds them junk food or lets the TV blare in the family room all hours of the day.

  They listen to her, and she listens to them. There’s a kind of mutual respect thing happening that I didn’t know my kids were capable of.

  Reaching for the ignition, I start my engine. So many questions were answered today, yet so many still remain. Mitch is right: I’m never going to know what he sees in her. I could watch her day in and day out and still never know. It’s a waste of time, and my time is precious. At least I know her name, and I know there there’s nothing special about her. She’s just a young girl who makes Graham feel like the middle of his life isn’t sagging.

  Oh, well, though.

  She can have him.

  I pull out of my parking space and look both ways, stopping short when a red Corvette veers into a nearby spot, almost swiping my front.

  That’d be a disaster.

  The man, dressed in gray pants and a white button down, climbs out and hurries toward the sidewalk, checking his periphery to see who’s around. A moment later, he’s knocking at Marnie’s door. And she opens, her painted mouth pulled into a Cheshire grin. He reaches for her, placing his hand in her hip, and she hooks her arm into his, pulling him inside. The door closes, and I sit in my parked car for a second, asking myself if that actually just happened.

  Thirty-Nine

  Autumn

  “You’re home early.” Daphne’s face lights when she sees Graham the next afternoon. It’s as if yesterday had never happened. She’s been flitting around, rambling happily about this new soufflé recipe she wants to try, and how she’s in the middle of planning a nice family vacation.

  I’m confused, but maybe this is how the well-to-do handle things? They wallow in their problems with self-pity and expensive wine, and the next day it’s back to business as usual?

 

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