For Sheriff Kwinault and for Maddie, he hoped God listened to their prayers.
* * *
On Friday, Jacob first went to see Maddie at the hospital. Then he returned home. He dressed in his military uniform, drove to Seattle to the funeral home, and gave the eulogy for Brandon LaFreniere. He spoke of Brandon’s intelligence, his strength under torture, and his bravery under fire. He spoke of the spirit of a man who faced the rest of his life in pain, without an arm and a leg, and who yet declared he would be happy, for nothing could ever be as bad as the cruelty and terror he had already faced. Jacob spoke of the lessons Brandon had taught them all, the inspiration Jacob himself had derived from simply knowing him. He paid tribute to his fallen comrade, and when he was done, Vera LaFreniere pressed his hand between hers, and with tears in her eyes, she thanked him.
Perhaps he couldn’t truly live for his brainiacs. But he had given comfort to Brandon’s mother, and today, for Jacob, that was enough.
* * *
On Sunday, Jacob drove up to the hospital entrance, got out, and hovered while one of the nurses wheeled Maddie out and helped her into the passenger seat. Jacob felt as secure as he could, assuming the care of a victim convalescing from multiple stab wounds: he had her medications, he had written instructions on her care, he had phone numbers to call, and best of all, he had Dr. Frownfelter next door.
As Jacob put the car in gear, Dr. Frownfelter rushed out of the hospital.
Maddie opened the window.
Frownfelter put his big hand on the door, leaned down, looked her in the eyes, and said, “Young lady, I give patients one of two lectures. I either tell them that they must begin activity or they will atrophy, or I tell them to take it easy. You are to take it easy. Jacob, you’re in charge. Remember, Maddie, if you feel like overdoing, I live next door. I will find out.”
Maddie smiled and promised not to overdo it.
Jacob promised to make sure she didn’t.
Dr. Frownfelter slapped the door and waved them on.
As Jacob and Maddie drove away, she smiled drowsily, leaned her head against the headrest, and closed her eyes. Not until they turned onto Dogwood Blossom Street did she rouse and look around.
An orange moving truck was parked in front of Mrs. Butenschoen’s house. A stream of people—relatives, Jacob assumed—trekked back and forth carrying boxes and furniture. An older gentleman—Mrs. Butenschoen’s brother?—was speaking to the local yard service, and while Jacob and Maddie watched, a real estate salesman pulled up to the curb.
A FOR SALE sign already decorated Dayton Floren’s front yard.
Another FOR SALE sign stood in the Franklins’ front yard; different real estate firm.
They already knew Dr. Frownfelter wasn’t home.
In her front yard, Mrs. Nyback stood guard over Spike as the little dog wandered around, thoroughly marking his territory. He seemed unchanged by his ordeal; Mrs. Nyback gave Jacob and Maddie a timid wave.
Maddie waved back at once.
God bless Maddie. She didn’t hold a grudge.
Jacob helped Maddie out of the car and walked with her up his walk. Step by step he helped her up onto his porch, where a huge, hand-lettered sign proclaimed:
WELCOME HOME, MADDIE!
YOUR CONSTRUCTION CREW
She stopped and read it. “I love those guys.”
“They’ve worked hard over the past few days trying to get the house ready for you. Everything’s done. Almost.”
She turned and looked across the street. “When I get better, I’ll have to finish packing my house.”
Something in him relaxed. Her home was larger, nicer than his. He had been afraid she would want to live there again. But as far as he was concerned, that place would always be haunted by specters, poison, and the hovering threat of murder. “I can do the packing.”
“Okay.” She laughed at his dismayed expression. “You didn’t think I’d argue with you, did you? I hate to pack.”
“I hate to unpack.” He opened the door.
“I have to unpack all by myself?” She stepped carefully over the threshold. “But I’m wounded, slashed by a fiend masquerading as a human being. Dr. Frownfelter told me not to overdo—”
“Remember to go slowly. We have all the time in the world.” He followed her in and shut the door in the face of the world.
They were home.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Some publishing companies and some editors would flinch when I say I’m writing a story that melds two great classic suspense movies, Gaslight and Rear Window. St. Martin’s Press and Jennifer Enderlin green-lighted the project and encouraged me to produce Because I’m Watching, a creepy, charismatic tale of two broken people and the terrors that haunt them. Thank you to SMP and Jennifer.
To Anne Marie Tallberg, Associate Publisher, and the marketing team of Jessica Preeg, Brant Janeway, Angela Craft, and Angelique Giammarino, thank you for your enthusiasm for Because I’m Watching and the whole Virtue Falls series.
The art department, led by Ervin Serrano, captured my vision of a terrifying story with this groundbreaking cover.
To everybody on the Broadway and Fifth Avenue sales teams: thank you for placing Because I’m Watching in just the right places and at just the right times.
A huge thanks to managing editor Amelie Littell and Jessica Katz in Production.
Thank you to Caitlin Dareff, who keeps me up to date and on time.
Thank you to Sally Richardson, St. Martins’s president and publisher. I am so glad to be part of St. Martin’s Press.
Read on for a sneak preview of
The Woman Who Couldn’t Scream,
the next novel from Christina Dodd
CHAPTER ONE
Benedict Howard was used to having women look at him. He had money. He had power. People saw that. Women looked at him. As they always told him, they found him interesting.
Now, the most beautiful woman in the world looked through him. Not over him. Not around him. Through him.
The Eagle’s Flight, the largest sailing yacht in the Birdwing line, cut through the waves with an authority that spoke well of the ships as well as the captain and his crew. As the new owner of the high-end cruise line, that gratified Benedict; his decision to buy had been sound.
But at three days into the two-week transatlantic crossing, his whole attention was focused on the world’s most beautiful woman.
Her skillfully tinted blond hair was styled in an upsweep with short tendrils that curled around her softly rounded face. Her nose was short and without freckles. Her neck was long and graceful. Her figure was without flaw, Barbie doll–like in its architectural magnificence. Unlike the other determinedly casual passengers, she wore a designer dress with matching jacket and one-inch heels. Her wide blue eyes were set deep in an artfully tended peaches-and-cream complexion … but they were blank, blind, indifferent. To him.
If she was trying to attract his attention by ignoring him, she had succeeded. But only for as long as it took him to recognize her machination. As he began to turn away, she looked toward a table set under the awning. She waved and she smiled.
Benedict was transfixed by her smile. He knew her. He was sure he knew her. From … somewhere. Business? No. Pleasure? No. In passing? Absurd. How could he forget the most beautiful woman in the world?
Stepping forward, he caught her elbow. “We’ve met.”
She turned her head toward him, but as if his impertinence offended her, she took her time and moved stiffly. She shook her head.
“I’m sure we’ve met.” He searched her face, searched his mind, seeking the time, the place. “You must remember. I’m Benedict Howard.”
She wore a leather purse over one shoulder. With elaborate patience, she pulled it around, reached inside, and pulled out a tablet computer. She brought up the keyboard and swiftly, so swiftly, she typed onto the screen. And showed it to him. It said, “How do you do, Mr. Howard. My name is Helen Brassard. I am a mute, unable to
speak. DO NOT SHOUT. I am not deaf. I certainly recognize you. You’re quite famous in the world of finance. But you don’t know me.”
“I don’t believe you.”
She gave him a look, the exasperated kind that without words called him an idiot.
And he realized he had instinctively raised his voice.
She typed again and showed him the tablet. “I’m sure we’ll run into each other again. It is a relatively small ship and an intimate passenger list. Now if you’ll excuse me, I don’t like to keep my husband waiting.”
Benedict wanted to insist, but he glanced at the small, dapper gentleman who glared at him with imperious fury, the gentleman who was old enough to be her grandfather. But wasn’t her grandfather. Benedict recognized him; that was French billionaire Nauplius Brassard. That was the husband.
Trophy wife. Helen was a trophy wife: head-turningly beautiful, no doubt accomplished in bed … and mute. Perfect for the short, thin, elderly gentleman who had no doubt purchased her services for the long term.
Benedict let her go and turned away.
She was right. He didn’t know her.
* * *
Helen Brassard seated herself next to her husband and used her hands to sign, “You look heated and I suspect you’re ready for your afternoon cocktail. Shall I order you a sidecar?”
Nauplius flipped his bony fingers around, grasped her wrist, and squeezed. “I saw him speak to you.”
She groped for her purse and her tablet.
“No! That’s how you communicate with everyone else. Sign to me.”
She shook her captured wrist, trying to free herself, to make it easier.
“Sign with one hand.”
Of course she did. “Benedict did speak to me.” She kept that gentle smile on her lips. Ignored the pain as the delicate bones ground together.
“He’s lost his looks.”
Signing: “He was never handsome.” Although that was the truth, when she had known him before, Benedict’s awkward arrangement of facial features had been offset by his youth and charisma. Now he looked … harsh, like a man who had tasted too much bitterness.
Nauplius adjusted his red bow tie. “What did he say?”
“He thought he knew me.”
“Impossible.”
Apparently not.
Nauplius was selfish to the point of psychosis, but his skill at observing and interpreting others had brought him wealth, power, and control. Now he must have read her thought, for his grip tightened again. “You look … not at all like the woman you were when he knew you.” Menacingly, “Do you?”
There was the paranoia she knew so well.
“I have not been in communication with him either on the ship or off. You know that.”
He did know that. He knew what she said and to whom, what she did and when. He owned her, and she knew from experience that he was infuriated by this unforeseen intrusion in the quality of his life. Especially this intrusion. During their nine-year marriage, they had lived in France and Italy, Greece and Spain and Morocco, anywhere she was isolated by language barriers, utterly dependent on him, and very, very unlikely to run into anyone she had known before.
Like the old man that he was, Brassard moved his jaw and chewed at nothing. “I didn’t know Howard would be on this cruise. What is he doing here?”
Signing: “I don’t know.”
“He didn’t tell you?”
She took a steadying breath before she signed, “All he said was that he knew me.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That he didn’t.”
“I’ll get us off this ship.”
She glanced out at the turbulent blue Atlantic, then up at the half-furled sails that caught the prevailing eastern winds, and signed, “How?”
“Helicopter. They can come out this far.”
“As you wish.” She bowed her head and waited.
His voice rasped with irritation. “But the helicopter—it’s very expensive and usually only used in case of emergency.”
She signed, “That is my concern. A helicopter could cost possibly one hundred thousand dollars.” Which Brassard could well afford. But wealthy as he was, he counted every cent and made sure she knew exactly how much she cost him.
He said, “I can call it in. I’m doing it for you.”
She looked into his brown, deceptively soft eyes and signed, “You have no need. When I see Benedict, I feel nothing.”
Brassard’s grip tightened. “You never feel anything.”
“Not true. Right now, you’re hurting me.”
In a swift, petty gesture, he tossed her wrist away from him.
As always, she was the perfect wife. In flowing, graceful movements, she asked, “Shall I order your cocktail?” and gestured to the hovering waiter.
* * *
For two days Benedict toured the working areas of the ship. He discussed meal preparation with the terrified chef and his equally terrified staff, inspected the lifeboats and their ongoing maintenance, and gave orders to improve the air-conditioning in the stifling laundry area.
Then Benedict moved into the public areas, stalking the ship’s photographer as she recorded the voyage for later purchase by the passengers. The invariably pleasant Abigail photographed passengers as they toured the bridge, arranged flowers, played bridge, ate and drank.
It was when he was with Abigail that he saw her again, the most beautiful woman in the world, in the midship lounge at the line dancing class. Helen Brassard looked the same, tastefully dressed and in matching heels, and she frowned as she concentrated on the prescribed steps, placing each foot with a calm precision that created an anchor in the turbulently undisciplined line. She pulled the other dancers along, encouraging them with admiring gestures and warm touches to their shoulders. When the line completed the simplest dance step in unison, she smiled.
The most beautiful woman in the world had the most beautiful smile in the world, and he was transfixed, enthralled, in need.
“That’s Mrs. Brassard,” Abigail said. “She is married to Mr. Brassard, who is wealthy, possessive, and quite … demanding.” Her voice held a distinct note of warning.
Benedict turned his cool gaze on her.
She respectfully lowered her eyes.
Abigail was afraid of him; all the staff were afraid of him. Yet she wanted him to know his interest would not be appreciated by a paying customer.
A good employee. A brave employee, one with guts and intelligence. He knew how rare those qualities were, and how valuable to the cruise line. He would see to it that she moved up in the ship’s hierarchy, and if she continued to do well, she would be sent to college and consequently she would move into his family’s company. “Thank you for the warning.” Which he wouldn’t heed, but that was of no consequence to her. He indicated a burly black man with massive shoulders and a calm demeanor. “That’s Carl Klineman, right? I always see him lurking near the Brassards. What is he to them?”
“He never speaks to them, and they never even glance at him,” Abigail said. “For the most part, he keeps to himself.”
“And yet?”
She lowered her voice. “Speculation among the staff is that he’s their bodyguard. Or an assassin. But no one really believes that Mr. Brassard would be oblivious to an assassin. He is a very astute man.”
Benedict sensed she had more to say. “And…?”
He had to lean close to hear her say, “Very astute and very … dangerous. He is dangerous. We, the staff, take care never to displease him.”
A man could learn a lot from his employees, especially in these circumstances, and Abigail was genuinely frightened. “Thank you for your insight. I will take care to tread carefully around Nauplius Brassard.” He gave her a moment to recover, then in a brisk tone asked, “What do you photograph next?”
“Musical bingo in the Bistro Bar starts in a half hour.”
“Let’s go.”
* * *
Benedict despise
d trophy wives. He always had. And that name: Helen.
Helen of Troy.
The most beautiful woman in the ancient world, the woman whose face launched a thousand ships. He could hardly believe she had been born with it. Probably she had chosen it when she created her persona to trap a wealthy man.…
So Benedict did his research and online he found out all about her.
Yes, Helen was the name she’d been given at birth. Her beginnings were humble; she had grown up in Nepal as the daughter of missionaries. When she was a teenager, her parents were killed in a rockfall and she was sent to the United States to live with her family in the South. She finished high school at sixteen and began college at Duke University, where her unusual beauty attracted Nauplius Brassard’s attention. After a brief courtship, she graciously consented to be his wife and dedicated herself to him and his well-being. She did not work, did not express independent opinions, and during the days when he worked or during the evenings when he made appearances at government functions and glittering parties, she never left his side.
Very neat. Very pat. But nowhere did any source explain why she could not speak. And that single fact made Benedict doubt the whole story—although the numerous politically incorrect among the online community suggested that an inability to speak made her the perfect wife for Nauplius Brassard.
The world abounded with jackasses.
And Benedict’s curiosity was piqued.
Before the voyage had even begun, the crew had studied the ship’s manifest and passenger list, memorizing every face and name. Now Benedict did the same, and when he was satisfied with his research and his ability to greet the guests, he joined the convivial table that nightly gathered after dinner at the bar at the aft of the ship, a table that included five retired Southern high school teachers making their annual pilgrimage to Europe, two university professors on sabbatical, a group of Spanish and Portuguese wine merchants, a skinny eighty-year-old corporate lawyer—and Nauplius Brassard and his wife Helen.
Benedict turned a chair from another table and dragged it over. “May I join you?”