Because I'm Watching (43 page)

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.

*   *   *

F
or 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 despised 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.…