Watching Her: A Gripping Thriller Novel With A Twist

by Emmy Ellis

  “I told you before, you don’t know anything about me, Claudine.”

  “Hah, yet you think you know everything about me?”

  “What I need to, to keep you safe.” He shook his head. “And stop gawping at me as though pulling out fingernails, putting cigarette burns in unmentionable places, and indulging in gang rape are my hobbies.”

  “Well, aren’t they?”

  “No, unlike these people your father is protecting you from. I’m protecting you from. They’d list all of those activities as weekend pastimes.”

  I held back a shudder. They didn’t sound like a pleasant bunch at all.

  “And are they still searching for me?”

  “Of course.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because when it’s…when things are fixed, your father will let me know.”

  “How will it be fixed?”

  “You don’t need to know that.” He set the rifle at an angle, against the front of the sofa, the butt resting on a shaggy white rug and the tip on a dark embroidered cushion.

  “I do. I need to know everything, and what’s more, I’ll find out, eventually.”

  “You’ll be told whatever your father wants you to know.”

  “You really think he has that much control over me?”

  Sutton rubbed his finger across his chin; the faint scratch of his flesh dragging on his beard filtered towards me. “Yes.”

  Irritation swarmed through me. Was it so transparent? I guessed it was. My father did control me. He had money and power, I had none. He had people who worked for him, I was alone.

  Should I ditch it all? Steal away in the dead of the night, ditch Sutton, ditch my identity? I could get to Mexico on that little boat, become Alma, Allyce, Aurellia, and melt into a Hispanic world where no one knew me. I could be a waitress, work a bar, I was sure of it. Cut my hair, get a tattoo, put on ten pounds.

  Couldn’t I?

  Sutton set his drink to one side and rested his head back. He shut his eyes.

  “Some lookout,” I muttered.

  “I sleep light.”

  After ten minutes or so, I’d finished my tea so placed it on the low polished table between Sutton and myself. It clanked softly.

  He opened his eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “I told you, I’m a light sleeper.” He stood and stretched his arms above his head. He locked his fingers, turned his palms outwards, and arched his back, creating a full body stretch. His T-shirt rose, exposing his flat belly. He made a strange sound, a groaning yawn, then dropped his hands back to his sides. “Food. We need food.”

  “Are we going to be all American and call for takeout?” I put a silly inflection on the last few words.

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  “Oh, lighten up, Sutton.”

  “I’m light enough.” He stepped towards me.

  “You think?” I stood, feeling hungry, too.

  “Yeah.” He walked from the room.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Look, I really think we should at least try to become friends,” I said, sitting at the kitchen table. I’d pulled on jeans and a cropped T-shirt, not wanting to be in the robe anymore.

  Sutton carried the food over. He placed it down—some sort of pasta dish in small bowls—and sat opposite me. “It’s not a good idea that we become friends.”

  “Why not? All this sniping isn’t healthy for my soul.” I was being flippant, but how else could I make him see that being near enemies wasn’t productive? We were in this together, like it or not.

  “I seem to recall it’s you who does most of the sniping.” He forked up some pasta.

  “Uh, no. It’s you.” I swirled the food around. Steam billowed up, bringing with it the scent of tarragon. “Why not tell me a bit about yourself then? So I can get to know you a little. It’ll pass the time.” That had sounded as though I’d listen to anything to relieve boredom, but I was curious as to who he was underneath…underneath what? The Sutton I knew at the Caribbean bar or the Sutton I knew now?

  “All you should concern yourself with is that I’m the man who will keep you safe. Once this is over, we can go our separate ways.”

  For some reason, I didn’t like the sound of that. Weirdly, I’d got used to having him around. “I know quite a lot about you already, even though you think I don’t.”

  “You know nothing.” He started eating.

  “Really? So you don’t swing from being a bumbling idiot to a calculated killer then? Did you take acting classes?”

  He chewed then swallowed. “I have to be whatever the situation expects.”

  “So at the bar, you thought it best to become the shy, retiring type, yes? Was that to make me trust you? A sweet man who had to lure me in so that I’d go with you?”

  “Something like that.”

  I was deflated somewhat. I’d thought… Oh, damn it, I’d thought he was vulnerable or honest or open, something like that. What a disappointment.

  “I see.” I stirred my food. It was still too hot to eat. Sutton must have a mouth of steel.

  “You don’t see anything except what you want to see, Claudine,” he said.

  Now what had he meant by that? Was his true personality hidden so deep that I’d never get to see it? Did he have several go-to personas and he’d lost his true self? I could relate to that. After all, I’d been playing different roles all my life. The good, quiet child. The flirty adolescent. The heartbroken female. And now the hostage. Lovely. So bloody lovely, that last one.

  “I’d like to see,” I said. “Honestly, there’s something about you. And I don’t mean that in a sexual way.”

  “For once.”

  “Yes, for once. Do you even know who you are anymore?”

  He stared off over my shoulder. “If it’ll stop all your questions and nosiness, no, I don’t know who the fuck I am anymore. Satisfied? Glad you’ve broken through?”

  I was but wouldn’t admit that. “If it makes you feel better, I’m in the same boat.”

  “I know what you’re up to.” He dug his fork into the pasta. It made a squealing sound against the china bowl. He ate some more.

  “What’s that, then?” I tasted mine—it was delicious.

  “Making friends.” He rose after putting the last of the food into his mouth, taking his bowl to the sink where he swilled it with water then stacked it in the dishwasher.

  “I honestly just want us to get along. You read crime novels, I take it?”

  “No.” With his back to me, he leant against the sink unit and dipped his head. He sighed. “I live inside crime novels. Except they’re not novels, they’re my actual life.”

  “Everything is scripted?”

  “Yes, as much as it can be.”

  “And if you don’t play your part, the author might get rid of you?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, the book titled The Hunt for Claudine, penned by Rupert Montague-Fostrop, is your current thriller, and you’d rather be doing anything but starring in it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d rather not be in it either, but there you go.” I finished my food while he remained where he was. I wondered what he was thinking—was he contemplating opening up to me or hoping I wasn’t going to probe anymore? Probably the latter, but I was never one who had learnt when to keep quiet. “I’m nothing like you assume,” I blurted. “Not deep inside.”

  Why should I care what he assumed? I didn’t know, but I did care. Father had probably fed this man lies about me. An unruly daughter, spoilt, always wanting things her own way. That may appear to be the case on the outside, but on the inside? I could admit—only to myself, though—that I wanted what most people wanted. To be loved for who I was. To be cherished. Someone’s whole world. I’d almost had that with her, until cogs had been turned, the mechanics of the rich world set in motion, and Father’s needs came first. I couldn’t possibly be known to have sullied our name—
his name. I’d thought he’d arranged the adoption so that his standing in the community remained intact. That he wanted her erased, disposed of, never to be thought of again. Yet he had pictures of her, contact with her new parents. It didn’t make sense. How could you act so callous yet underneath it all care? He was an enigma, my father, in more ways than one.

  I waited for Sutton to answer, rolling my fingertips over my thumb ends. When he didn’t, I took my bowl to the sink and nudged him to one side with my hip so I could rinse it. He took it from me, doing the job himself.

  “Are you employed to be my maid as well then?” I snapped.

  “You mentioned something about not sniping?” My bowl joined his in the dishwasher.

  “I did, but seeing as you’re not interested in being friends, I thought it best that I go back to how you know me. The woman you think you understand. The sex-mad female.”

  “You’re saying you’re not?” He stared at me.

  For a moment, time seemed to stop. I studied him, trying to decipher where this was going to go. There was sexual tension, no denying it on my part, but he was fighting what I hoped was a losing battle. I wanted him, perhaps because he’d rejected me, making him all the more attractive, or for something else. Whatever that something else was brought back memories of Aaron. Of my naivety and how I’d thought… What had I thought back then? That we’d run off into the sunset together?

  Yes, I had.

  And look where it had got me. What those foolish dreams had amounted to. My eyes stung, and I’d bet my last penny Sutton would take it that I was turning on the waterworks in order to get him to take me in his arms. If only he knew what was really going through my mind.

  “I…” Did I want to tell him? Open up and see where the dice fell? “You don’t know me, Sutton.” I tamped down the urge to adopt a haughty tone. I kept it soft, light, confiding. “You’ve watched me as you’ve followed me from country to country, and yes, to the casual observer, it would seem I’m a fun-time girl. It would also seem I have no morals, no feelings, but as you must know, hiding who you are is paramount if you’re to survive without crumbling at every turn.”

  I’d given him enough for the moment, and if he was anything like I suspected, he’d understand what I wasn’t saying. And if he didn’t understand? Well, then he was just like all the rest. A man who didn’t give a shit.

  “I see you,” he said, the words breathy.

  I was startled at what he’d said but kept my expression neutral. A niggle of doubt surfaced. ‘I have to be whatever the situation expects.’ Was he doing that now? Reading from his script? Bloody hell, I was going to go insane if I questioned every little thing.

  “Maybe you do, maybe you don’t,” I said, knowing I’d ruined this…whatever it was. Bonding of souls. Two people expressing their feelings.

  He stepped away, backwards, to the kettle. “Tea?”

  “Yes, please.”

  I returned to my seat, swearing the air had turned frigid.

  I watched him as he busied himself with the mundane task. Waited for him to say something else.

  “I know things,” he said.

  “Oh, I’m sure you do. I know things, too. It’s what humans are good at, knowing things. We learn then know.” I was being a bitch but couldn’t help myself.

  He poured boiling water into the teapot.

  I remained silent.

  “I know a lot about you.” He took cups and saucers out of a cupboard above the kettle.

  “All lies, I suspect. All fabrications by the author Rupert Montague-Fostrop, designed to make you dislike me so that you just do your job.”

  “No. I don’t dislike you. I feel sorry for you.”

  “Sorry for me?” I wanted to jump up and tell him where to stick his pity, but I remained in place. “That’s marvellous. I adore it that you feel sorry for me, truly.”

  “Sarcasm is your go-to retaliation, isn’t it—and I understand why.”

  “Do you now.”

  “Yes. Your life…” He brought the cups to the table. “Isn’t one I would want to live.”

  “It’s good job you don’t have to then, isn’t it.” Heat pulsed in my cheeks. It was all very well me wanting to dig into his psyche, but for him to try it with me? No. No way.

  “You need someone to take you away from it all,” he said, going to the worktop then returning with the teapot. His actions—it was like he was chatting about nothing of importance, a quick natter while he prepared a drink.

  “I rather thought you had taken me away from it all. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here, in a house I didn’t know existed until we rolled up in that boat.”

  “No, properly away from it all. A new life. New beginning. With a man who can care for you.”

  “Are you offering to be that man then? Because I don’t see an orderly queue of others willing to do so. The spot’s free, as it were. Or don’t you want the spot? Am I too tainted for the likes of you? Too sullied by other men’s—”

  “Claudine…”

  “Call me Ava here,” I said. “You never know who might be listening out there.” I jerked my head at the window.

  “Why do you do that?”

  “What?”

  “Make up names?”

  “I just do.” I paused. “I like it. New place, new name, new me.”

  “Ava it is then.”

  A wave of desperation came over me, transporting me back in time to when I’d been vulnerable, when everything had been so topsy-turvy that I’d wanted to die. I took a deep breath to stave off a panic attack—please don’t let them get a hold of me again—and pinched my thigh through my clothing in an attempt to send the hurt there. The hurt in my heart was too much to deal with in company.

  “Is she being brought up as an Austrian?” I asked.

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about.” He sat and poured our tea.

  “Yes, you do.”

  He added milk. “No, I don’t.”

  “Guilia,” I whispered.

  “Ah, her.” He pushed my cup towards me.

  “Yes, her.”

  “I have no idea, and even if I did, I couldn’t tell you.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  “But it was worth a try.”

  “It was.” I stared at him, the visual misting.

  He reached across and covered my hand with his. At one time his touch would have sent my emotions in another direction, but they went elsewhere, into my chest.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  I swallowed the lump in my throat. “So am I. Bloody hell, so am I.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was peculiar, being shuttered into a house and knowing the sun burned bright outside. It really was like hiding, sealing ourselves away from the rest of the world. Not far from here, people went about their business, and tourists enjoyed the serenity of Clearwater. But here, in our self-imposed prison, all was dark and quiet.

  I wandered through the rooms looking for clues my father’s visits may have left. I found a well-thumbed paperback by Lee Child, one of his favourite authors. A half-drunk bottle of Dalmore in a drinks’ cabinet in the kitchen. In a room I guessed he used as a study, I quickly discovered a safe hidden behind a huge picture of a stag staring at a hunter with a rifle.

  And the stag, so trusting, so uncomprehending of what was about to happen, just stood there, waiting to be killed.

  Was that what I was doing? Was I a sitting duck? Waiting to take a bullet?

  Why wasn’t I running for my life? Getting the hell out of there?

  Because Sutton is looking out for you.

  I knotted my fingers and locked my knuckles beneath my chin. The stag was innocent; he hadn’t hurt anyone.

  But what about me? Was I innocent?

  I guessed that depended on whether cavorting around the globe shagging and spending my father’s money was a sin.

  “Claudine. Where are you?”

  I dropped my hands at the sound of Sutton’
s voice. “In here.”

  Footsteps, and then he appeared in the doorway. “I have to go out.”

  “What? Where?”

  “Minor complication.”

  “I thought you were supposed to be my bodyguard. How can you guard me if you’re not here?”

  He sighed, and I wasn’t sure if he was weary with my question or weary because he had an errand of some sort to run.

  “You’ll be quite safe, it’s only for a few minutes, ten at the most.”

  “Oh, okay.” That didn’t sound so bad.

  “Just, you know, stay put.”

  “I will.”

  He peered at the picture. “What are you doing?”

  “Just exploring.”

  He nodded, no doubt feeling glad that he’d hidden the information about Guilia in the safe already.

  Too late.

  I’ve seen her.

  “Okay,” he said, “you carry on. Just—”

  “I know. I know. Stay put.”

  “Yep.” He frowned then turned.

  For a moment, I stared at the space in the doorframe he’d occupied, all broad-shouldered efficiency and with an expectation that I really would do as he’d told me.

  Which wasn’t my usual form.

  But today I would.

  For a change.

  The front door clicked, and the knowledge of being utterly alone lay over me, a heavy weight.

  For several minutes I just stood there, the silence ringing in my ears.

  The low rumble of what sounded like a lawn mower tugged me from my moment, and I turned from the painting. I opened the top drawer of a filing cabinet and leafed through it. Mostly, I just found deeds and plans for houses in Clearwater. A few utility bills which appeared to be on direct debit. There was a planning application for an outbuilding and jetty, but it didn’t seem to be for this house. Going by the architect’s drawing, I suspected it to be for one of the neighbouring properties.

  Was that where Sutton had gone?

  Were people in those properties, hiding out like we were?

  A soft click, then a dull thud from the hallway caught my attention.