7. Reluctant Allies #4
The journey to the watchtower feels endless tonight, my heartbeat drowning out the creak of each step on the narrow staircase.
My breath comes in shallow gasps. What if he doesn’t come?
What if I’ve shattered some unspoken rule between us?
What if I’ve catastrophically misread everything, the journals filled with my every movement, the protection that borders on obsession, the footprint he deliberately pressed into mud for me to find?
The tray trembles in my white-knuckled grip, silver edges cutting into my palms as sweat slicks the underside.
The watchtower looks untouched since morning.
The papers are still stacked, the telescope still points at town, and the journals sit in their neat row.
He hasn’t been back since I found his hideout.
I set the tray down on the table by the window.
Moonlight hits the silver, making it shine bright.
I touch the note one last time and almost take it back.
It feels weird leaving it there, like I’m admitting I know he’s watching me and I’m okay with it.
My voice breaks the silence, unfamiliar even to me.
“I’ve seen your work,” I say to the seemingly empty room.
The floorboards creak slightly, though I haven’t moved.
My fingers trace the edge of the tray. “All those people who vanished. All those lives rebuilt.” I pause, listening to my own heartbeat.
“Including mine, apparently.” The moonlight shifts through the window, casting new shadows across the floor.
I wait, then whisper, “I just—I want to know why. That’s all. ”
Back in the library, I pull down another leather-bound book, but my hands shake on the gold edges.
What am I doing? I left food for a stranger who’s been watching me, like I’m feeding a stray cat instead of maybe inviting a stalker.
The grandfather clock chimes eleven, and I find myself listening for footsteps above.
By midnight, I’ve sorted three books and checked the ceiling seventeen times.
At one, I’m pacing between shelves, sometimes scolding myself for being reckless, sometimes defending it.
He could be dangerous. He’s protected others.
I could call the police, but that would betray him.
My logical side says to lock my bedroom door, but something deeper tells me I’ve never felt safer than with him watching over me.
At two, I stop pretending to work. There’s no way I’m sleeping—my nerves are shot, and I’m dying to know.
I head back up the narrow staircase, my heart pounding so hard it feels like it might punch through my ribs and make a run for it.
The watchtower door is cracked open, just waiting, and I freeze mid-step, suddenly forgetting how to breathe.
The tray’s empty. Every crumb of bread, every sliver of cheese, is gone.
Even the wine bottle sits there bone-dry.
My note? Vanished. Instead, there’s this old leather book that wasn’t here before, all soft- worn around the edges with a spine that’s been cracked open a thousand times.
No way I would’ve missed it this morning among all those journals and maps spilling the town’s dirty secrets.
I approach it like it might grow fangs and bite me, perched on the edge of the chair as I draw it toward me. No title marks its cover, no name claims its creation. The leather feels warm beneath my fingertips, as if it’s only just been put down. With trembling hands, I open it to the first page.
And there I am, standing on the porch steps that first day, keys clutched in my hand, expression torn between determination and apprehension as I face the estate.
The drawing captures not just my appearance but something deeper, the nervous energy in my stance, the stubborn tilt of my chin, the way my eyes narrow when I’m bracing myself for a challenge.
It’s done in charcoal with impossible precision, each line confident and deliberate.
I flip to the next page, and my breath catches.
It’s me again, this time running my fingers along book spines in the library, hair falling into my eyes while on the hunt for some old volume.
Then another sketch: me hunched over my desk, chewing my lip, drowning in research notes.
The pages keep coming, showing moments I had no idea anyone saw: me curled up asleep in the window seat while rain lashed the glass; me standing with my arms crossed, glaring at Officer Peck in my doorway; me wandering through morning mist in the garden, sunlight catching in my unruly hair.
I flip the page and nearly drop the book.
There I am at Mom and Dad’s funeral, standing ramrod straight in that awful black dress, my face a mask while inside I was screaming.
God, I remember thinking if I let out even a single tear, I’d drown everyone there.
Then another drawing, graduation day, clutching my diploma with white knuckles, my other hand balled into this defiant little fist I never knew I made.
Like I was saying to the universe, “See? I did it anyway, without them.”
The portraits get deeper as I flip through, not creepy-intimate, but like he’s caught all those raw moments I thought nobody saw.
There I am, crying at 2 AM with a tissue crumpled in my fist; there’s that look on my face when I’m sure I’m screwing everything up; and even that little dance I did in the kitchen when I finally got the ancient oven to work.
God, Thought I was alone for all of that.
The pages turn to reveal something unexpected, sketches that capture not just my vulnerability but a version of myself I barely recognize.
There I am on market day, shoulders squared as I stare down Garrow, the charcoal lines somehow conveying both my trembling hands and unwavering gaze.
Another shows me kneeling beside a sobbing child outside the general store, my face a mirror of her distress yet somehow steadying.
Most startling is the one from that twilight walk when those boys trailed me through the pines; he’s drawn me from behind, but something in the set of my spine tells the whole story.
I turn to the last page. There I am, captured just hours ago, crouched beside that deliberate footprint in the yard.
My face in the drawing shows everything I’d tried to hide, the relief flooding through me, the questions still lingering in my eyes, the moment when pieces started clicking together.
Below the portrait, flowing script matches the handwriting from the journals: “You notice what they hope remains unseen.”
I close the book, my eyes stinging with tears. It’s like he truly sees me—not just what I look like or what I do, but who I am inside. He’s not just some creep or someone spying. He’s been watching me like I’m someone worth understanding. Like I matter.
I grab a blank page from my notebook and pop the cap off my pen.
My hand just hovers there while I try to find the right words, but they keep slipping away.
How the hell do you write to someone who’s got you all figured out when you don’t even know yourself?
This person who’s been watching my back without me asking.
This ghost who shows me things instead of telling me.
Finally, I begin to write. “I’ve been searching for answers since I arrived, not realizing that someone was guiding me toward them all along. Thank you for the portraits—for seeing me as I am, not as what this town believes me to be. My name is Elara Hale. I think it’s time I knew yours.”
I’ve barely signed my name when my phone vibrates in my pocket, shattering the moment. Maeve’s name flashes on the screen, along with the time. 3:17 AM. Nothing good comes from calls at this hour.
“Elara,” she says the instant I answer, her voice tight with the forced calm she uses when things have gone sideways. “I’ve booked a flight tomorrow. I’ll be there by dinner.”
My stomach drops. “What? Why?”
“I’ve received concerning reports about your situation,” she says, each word precise as a scalpel. “Your unhealthy attachment to the property. Your isolation. The… incidents in town.”
“From who?” I demand, though I already know the answer. Garrow. It has to be. “Maeve, I’m fine. Better than fine.”
I grip the phone tighter. “There’s nothing to worry about,” I insist, my voice rising.
“God, Maeve, I’m so tired of everyone treating this house like it’s some kind of—of problem to solve.
First the town, now you.” My gaze falls on the sketchbook as I pace, this beautiful evidence of a presence that Maeve would undoubtedly see as reason to have me committed, or worse, to force the sale of the estate that’s finally beginning to feel like mine.
The line crackles with her sigh. “This conversation can wait until I’m there in person. In the meantime, please don’t do anything… impulsive.”
The call ends, and I’m left standing there like an idiot with my note in one hand and my stupid phone in the other. Great. Just perfect.
Tomorrow, Maeve swoops in. Miss Logic-and-Reason, who’d take one look at this watchtower, the journals, and the portraits, she’d probably call a psychiatric hospital.
She’d never understand what’s really going on here.
She’d likely try to clean the place, book me a hotel, and schedule a therapy session.
I stare at my chicken-scratch handwriting, then flip through the sketchbook again.
Shit. Less than twenty-four hours before Maeve swoops in with her power suits and legal pad to “save” me from this weird, wonderful house, and from whoever’s been watching over me all this time.
The only person who’s ever really gotten me, and I don’t even know their name.