Read They're Watching (2010) for Free Online Page A

shot. Bracing myself, I picked up the remote and clicked "play" again. Seeing that grainy approach to the house sent another jolt through my system. I tried to detach myself and watch closely. No gauging how recently the lawn had been mowed. No fresh scratches on the back door. The kitchen--no plates in the sink showing the remains of a meal. Trash! I punched "pause" and studied the full can. Empty cereal box. A crinkly ball of foil stuck in the mouth of a yogurt cup.
    I rushed into the kitchen. The trash in the can matched the screen snapshot precisely, in content and composition. Nothing on top of the cereal box or yogurt cup. Today was Tuesday--Ariana had worked late as usual and probably ordered takeout to the showroom, so she'd added no new trash since yesterday. I checked the coffeemaker, and sure enough the soggy filter from this morning was still parked inside.
    The footage of me sleeping had been shot last night. So that clip, on the third DVD, had been shot before the second clip, which in turn showed me checking out the location of the first. Pretty good planning. I almost had to admire the care being taken.
    I checked the back door. Locked. Ariana must've caught it this morning. I wouldn't require any more reminders to throw the dead bolt. Handling the DVD, as before, with a tissue, I snapped it into a spare case.
    Julianne's nicotine-fueled commentary in the faculty lounge took on fresh significance. Clearly this had gone beyond harassment. Three DVDs like this in under eighteen hours constituted a threat, and that scared me. And pissed me off. It seemed certain that, as Marcello has intoned in innumerable trailers, this was only the beginning. I would have to tell Ariana now, that was certain; for all its shortcomings, our marriage had a full-disclosure policy. But first I wanted to cross Don, the obvious red herring, off the list.
    I headed out, turned left at the sidewalk. The night was brisk, the clean air and bizarre mission making me light-headed. Just a neighborly visit.
    A bus rattled by, unnervingly close, a behemoth on creaky joints. It carried a coming-this-summer ad for They're Watching: a figure in a raincoat, made blurry by Manhattan rain, descending into the subway. He toted a briefcase, his shadowy face peering over his shoulder with a furtive panic that implied paranoia. As the bus passed, I skipped back to the curb, dodging a slapstick obituary.
    The chimes sounded unusually loud inside the Millers' foyer. Charged from fear, the night air, my proximity to their house, I shifted from foot to foot, composing myself. An interior light clicked on. A shuffling, some grumbling, and then Martinique at the front door. Don's long-suffering, beautiful wife, with her sad eyes and contrived L.A. name. The flesh at the backs of her arms was feathered, loose from the sixty pounds she'd dropped. Her waist now looked like you could fit a napkin ring around it. Stretch marks formed half-moons emanating from her belly button, the lines of a cartoon explosion. They were faded, microdermabraded into submission, and looked soft and feminine. Even roused, she looked impeccable--her hair shiny and brushed, satin pajama bottoms matching her burgundy halter camisole. She was aggressively competent--ethnically appropriate holiday cards, morning thank-you calls after our infrequent dinner parties, twigs and raffia adorning neatly wrapped birthday presents.
    "Patrick," she said, casting a wary glance over her shoulder, "I hope you're not going to do anything you'll regret." She clipped some of her words, only barely, but enough to broadcast that she was Central American instead of Persian.
    "No. Sorry to wake you. I just stopped by to ask Don something."
    "I don't think that's a great idea. Especially right now. He's wiped. Flew back this morning."
    "From where?"
    "Des Moines. Work. I think, anyway."
    "How long was he gone?"
    She frowned. "Just two nights. Why--did she take a trip, too?"
    "No, no," I said, trying to hide my