I'll Be Watching You Read online

  IT’S EVERY MOTHER’S NIGHTMARE...BUT ONE SHE WILL NOT ACCEPT

  In an unthinkable flash, Emmy Fisher’s fifteen-year-old daughter, Leah, seemingly drowns close to shore one summer night—at least that is what the police report says.

  In deep grief, Emmy needs time and courage before she can enter Leah’s bedroom. But when she does, she finds something at first bewildering, then unspeakable, as she begins to understand the full implications...

  She uncovers evidence that Leah had been secretly involved with someone, someone perhaps older, someone with dark appetites.

  Bit by bit, the last few months of Leah’s life unfold in a terrifying way that Emmy can hardly imagine.

  All she knows is that she has to find the person who took her sweet daughter’s innocence. No matter the cost.

  The truth will set her free. Or bury her.

  Also by Courtney Evan Tate

  SUCH DARK THINGS

  Look for Courtney Evan Tate’s next novel

  available soon from MIRA Books.

  I’ll Be Watching You

  Courtney Evan Tate

  To all the mamas in the world.

  As Elizabeth Stone once said:

  “Making the decision to have a child—it is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.”

  I agree, Ms. Stone. I agree.

  Contents

  Ramblings from the Island

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Ramblings from the Island

  I fear that you won’t like me much, dear readers.

  I’ve been telling you lately of my escapades, and my choices, and they haven’t all been good ones, have they?

  I worry about that.

  Culpability is a strange word, and one I’ve really never thought about before.

  But I’m thinking about it now.

  I’ve ended it with him, dear readers.

  He wasn’t happy.

  But it wasn’t right, was it?

  He was scaring me, and fear should never be a part of love.

  I’m glad I’ve come to realize that before things went even further.

  I want you to know... I’m not a bad person. I swear to you, I’m not. You started my story at the point of my bad decision... My worst decision. A decision that seemingly only a bad person would make.

  Please realize that when we’re living our lives, sometimes we get swept up in choices, and making the wrong one is sometimes all too easy.

  As I write this, I’m staring at the dream catcher that hangs over my bed. Its feathers are fluttering in the wind, and I have to think of the good dreams that seem so long ago. It seems lately that I’m living in a nightmare, in a web of bad decisions. I’d like to get back to the good dreams again.

  Because in spite of what it seems, I’m a good person.

  I promise.

  Tags: bad decisions, bad love, abuse, inappropriate relationships, heartbreak.

  Chapter One

  August 9

  “I’m nervous,” Leah whispers to me. She’s jittery, that is for certain.

  She’s curled into my side as we rock in the wooden double glider, her foot bouncing against the wood planks. My arm is around her slender shoulders, stroking her back, and it’s private and quiet on our porch. The only noise comes from the crash of the ocean in front of us, as it repeatedly and violently kisses the shore.

  “Why, sweetie?” I ask, glancing down at her innocent face. She’s got just a smattering of freckles on her nose, the only imperfection on her entire body. Well, Leah thinks they are an imperfection. I think they’re adorable. “Is it school tomorrow? It’s your sophomore year. This isn’t your first rodeo. You know everyone, everyone knows you. There’s no reason to be nervous.”

  My daughter shrugs, and her arm drops over the edge of our chair so she can rest it on Bo. He rubs his giant body against her legs, wanting more attention. He’s never satisfied with any amount. We figure that’s because we adopted him from a refuge, where he’d been stuck in a cage in the back corner. He’ll never get all of his loneliness filled up.

  “I dunno,” she answers simply. “You know how I get.”

  “I know.” My daughter is thoughtful and pensive, deep and soulful. I tell her that she has the soul of an eighty-year-old crammed in her teenage body. She doesn’t like that much, but it’s true. She’s a perfectionist, and she thrives on schedules. When they change, such as when the summer turns into the school year, it’s unsettling for her. But she adjusts quickly.

  The night breeze comes off the water now, smelling of salt and dark sea creatures, and lifts our hair off our faces. We both close our eyes, enjoying the break from the sultry tropical humidity.

  The Florida Keys are beautiful, but excruciatingly hot in the summer.

  “You know what your grandma Lola taught me before she died?” I ask her, knowing full well that I’ve told her time and time again.

  “Which thing?”

  “Well, she taught me three important things,” I say and Leah nods. She knows. “First, if you’re going to do something, do it. Do it all the way. If you can’t, don’t even bother.”

  Leah stares at me. “And that helps me for tomorrow, how? Are you telling me not to go to school?”

  I chuckle. “Nice try. I’m reminding you because you’re like her in that way. You do things all the way, babe. You’re nervous now, but tomorrow afternoon, you’ll come home and you will have owned that school. You do things all the way. Always.”

  She can’t argue. She knows it’s true. She doesn’t know the meaning of the expression half-assed.

  “She also taught you to fight for what you want,” Leah tells me, because she has the three things memorized. She should, since she’s heard them all her life.

  My mom died when I was only twelve, so I’ve always clung to her lessons. They’re all I have left of her fading memory.

  “Yes, she did. She knew that better than anyone. As a poor girl growing up on this island back the
n...well, she had to fight for every ounce of respect she had.”

  “But then she threw it all away by sleeping with everyone’s husbands,” Leah points out, and even now, that fact stabs me in the gut. I know why my mother was the way she was. My gran told me a hundred times, and I repeat her words to my daughter now.

  “She felt she had something to prove,” I say softly. “She never felt like she was enough. So she tried to prove it by using her power over things—men, specifically—especially those who weren’t hers. I’m not proud of it, but it’s who she was.”

  She always wore red, my mother. Everyone who remembers her remembers her in red. It was Lola Casey’s signature color, and it was, in fact, her third lesson to me: always wear red lipstick.

  “Maybe that’s why she killed herself,” Leah muses, staring out to sea. “Because of guilt.”

  I pause, then shake my head. “No. I don’t think so. I think she just got tired of trying to prove herself.”

  Leah grasps my hand, her fingers wrapping around mine. “I feel sorry for you, Mom. You lost her when you were so little.”

  I focus on the horizon, at where the moon’s pregnant belly grazes the water. “It’s okay,” I say softly. “She wasn’t really meant for this world. She was wild and erratic. She hated being a mother, even though she loved me. Gran and Grandpa raised me and made me feel loved. I couldn’t have asked for a better childhood.”

  I don’t tell her of the sadness...the all-encompassing sadness that consumed me for years after my mom died. She doesn’t need to know about that.

  “I shouldn’t feel sorry for myself ever,” my daughter decides suddenly, squaring her slim shoulders. “Not when I’ve been so lucky, with you as my mom.”

  A gush of warmth wells through me. “You think so?”

  Leah nods. “I know so.”

  She’s still holding herself rigid, her foot still thumping on the floor, but I smile at her.

  “Thank you, honey. Were you feeling sorry for yourself?”

  Her face is troubled, but then she wipes it away; whether she’s hiding it, or I imagined it, I don’t know.

  Leah shakes away the sadness, changing the subject. “Mom. Look at the moon.”

  “I see it.”

  The light from it shimmers on the surface, turning everything an elegant shade of silver. It’s magical.

  “Let’s go night swimming,” she urges me now. “It will feel like fairy lights out there, with the moon on the water so bright. It’ll be like we’re swimming in moonlight, like an ocean full of stars.”

  I laugh again because my daughter has the best poetic imagination.

  She pleads, her lower lip full as she tugs on it with her white teeth. Her smile cost me eight thousand dollars last year, but it’s perfect now. I shake my head.

  “Babe, I’m exhausted. And I still have wine left.” I hold up my glass and swirl the red liquid around. “But you can go. Just for a while. You’ve got to get up early tomorrow.”

  She smiles, because she knew I would give in, because I rarely say no to her. I don’t have to. She’s a good kid and never asks for anything unreasonable.

  She jumps up and runs into the house to change, up the three flights of stairs to our third-floor quarters.

  Two minutes later, she returns, with Bo on her heels and her red paddleboard in tow. She’s dressed in black bikini bottoms and a red bikini top. At fifteen, she’s long and lean, with the perfect curves of the young.

  She starts to bounce down the porch steps, but I remember what I’d seen earlier, when I took her clean laundry into her room.

  “Leah?”

  She turns, her innocent face tilted toward me, waiting for me to speak.

  “I saw your latest pictures on your bed. What did I tell you?”

  I’m stern, and she sighs.

  “No taking pictures of the guests.”

  “Exactly. And why is that?”

  “Because they come here to relax. Not to have their privacy infringed upon.”

  “Exactly,” I agree. “So why are you still taking pictures of them?”

  “I’m sorry, Mom.” She meets my gaze. “It’s just... You know how I am. I love to catch people in candid moments. It’s when they’re most truthful.”

  “But not the guests, Li-Li,” I tell her firmly. “I mean it. Take pictures of Skye, take pictures of Liam. Hell, take pictures of everyone you know. But not the guests.”

  “Okay.” Her shoulders slump because she’s bored with taking pictures of her friends. She’s told me that a hundred times since she picked up the photography bug a year or so ago.

  “But they’re really good,” I tell her in a conspiratorial whisper. “You’ve got talent, little girl.”

  She grins now. “Yeah?”

  “Oh, yeah. I think you should take pictures for the yearbook this year.”

  She beams at that, and heads toward the beach, pacified now. She jogs over the very same sand that I used to play in when I was little. Once upon a time, I spent all of my time out there, amid all the other little kids running through the surf while their parents drank mojitos on the shore. This is an inn, after all, and my family has always run it. There has never been a shortage of tourists to stay here within our rooms, or a shortage of tourists flocking to the Keys.

  Hemingway himself lived here once, too, years ago. He fished and drank and scribbled his tomes. It wasn’t until after he left that he blew his brains out.

  I don’t know if that was a coincidence, or not.

  What I do know is that Key West isn’t the perfect place the tourists believe it to be. They see the beautiful facade, the colorful houses, the foamy waves. They don’t see the close-minded people, or the long hours people like me have to work in order to give them that perfect vacation.

  But that’s fine. I choose this life. My grandparents left me this inn on the water, the Black Dolphin; it was their greatest treasure. I treasure it, too. It’s in my blood.

  I watch Leah loop the ankle strap around her leg and swim out to the break, leaving Bo sitting on the sand. He tilts his big head and watches her, as a stream of drool drips from his jowl. I hope he shakes it away out on the sand rather than in the house later. I’m sick of finding dried dog spit splattered on the walls.

  Leah slices through the water efficiently, her slender arms like silent knives. The water is quiet. But Leah doesn’t care about that. She wants to sit and float on top of her board, staring at the moon, pretending the rays hitting her skin are fairy dust.

  My daughter is a dreamer, just like me. I can’t complain about that.

  I watch her dark head bobbing in the water, swimming to and fro, until her shadowy form melts into the night sky. The splash of the sea against the shore is soothing and soft, and I am completely relaxed when my cell phone rings a mere moment later.

  There’s only one person who would call me this late.

  “Hey, Nate,” I greet my ex-husband. “How’re things?”

  People still marvel that we can be as close as we are, but the truth of the matter is, we’re closer now that we’re divorced and living thousands of miles apart than we ever were when we were married.

  “Good,” he answers in his husky voice. I always did love that voice. Raspy, like he’d been sitting in a smoky blues bar for hours. It immediately makes a person think of sexy things, of long nights and rumpled bedding. “How’s Leah?”

  “She’s a bit nervous about the first day of school,” I answer, watching her stand on her board for a minute, before she loses the small wave and crashes into the water.

  “That’s normal,” he replies. “It happens every year.”

  “I know. She’s been going to school with the same kids for years now. I don’t know why she still gets the jitters.”

  “Because she’s Leah,” he says simply, and that really says it a
ll.

  “She’ll be fine,” I tell him confidently, and he agrees.

  “She always is.”

  We’re quiet for a second, in the familiar way that two people who have known each other forever can be.

  “How’s the mutt?” he asks next. “Still eating you out of house and home?”

  I sigh. “Yeah. Thanks for that.”

  “Hey, Leah’s the one who sent me the adoption notice, and kept texting all the sad pictures. What was I supposed to do?”

  “Not send her the money to adopt a mastiff/Saint Bernard mix?” I suggest wryly.

  “Now that’s just crazy talk.”

  “How about...I’ll send Bo to you and you can feed him?”

  “Nope. It’s too hot here in Phoenix for him. That wouldn’t be fair to him.” His answer was just a little too quick.

  “That’s convenient.”

  He laughs. “It’s been well thought out, trust me.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “So, can I talk to her? I wanna wish her luck.”

  I glance back out at the water. Leah slaps at the surface, beckoning Bo closer. He hates the water. When he eventually does go in someday, it will only be because of her. He’ll do anything for her. She’d won his loyalty quickly and absolutely.

  “She’s paddleboarding.”

  “In the dark?”

  I can practically hear Nate slap his own forehead.

  “I thought we talked about this.”

  “The water is quiet tonight. It calms her nerves.”

  He can’t argue with that.

  “I don’t let her do it often,” I add.

  “You indulge her,” he tells me.

  “Says the man who bought her an elephant.”

  “Touché.”

  “What’s she going to wear tomorrow? I’m sure she has it all picked out already.”

  “Oh, yes. The uniform of her generation. Maroon Hollister shirt, white cutoffs and white Converses.”

  “Classy.”

  I chuckle and he laughs, and for a minute, just a minute, I forget why we ever divorced.

  My glass is empty and I decide to splash a little more in. I open the door with my foot.