Someone Is Watching by Joy Fielding Read Free Book Online Page A

an assistant state’s attorney, for God’s sake. And no, I don’t want anything to drink. How are youdoing?” His voice softens, his dark eyes narrowing with what I like to think of as concern but is more likely suspicion. He’s not sure he believes my story, I understand in that moment, ushering him into the living room.
    “Not great,” I say.
    “Maybe it would help if you got dressed.”
    I look down at my blue flannel pajamas, trying to remember the last time I changed them. Maybe yesterday, maybe the day before.
    “You look like hell,” he says.
    “Thank you.”
    “Sorry. I’m just upset. This is very upsetting.”
    No kidding,
I think but don’t say.
    “Look, I didn’t come here to argue.” Gene walks toward the living room window, and for the first time, I notice a slight limp. He is a big man, tall, with a linebacker’s girth, which I guess isn’t surprising, considering that he played football in college and was, by all accounts, headed for a pro career before being sidelined with torn ligaments in his right knee. Or maybe it was his left knee, I think, as he comes to a stop and turns around to face me. He might be more handsome if he were less severe. But he wears his thinning brown hair in an unflattering crew cut, and his lips always turn down, even when he smiles, which isn’t often, at least in my presence. He unbuttons the jacket of his navy blue cotton suit to reveal a noticeable paunch pressing against the lighter blue shirt beneath. He fidgets with his too-wide, blue-striped tie. I can’t remember ever seeing Gene without a tie. “Nice apartment,” he says.
    “Thank you.”
    “You have good taste.”
    “Thank you.”
    “What the hell happened?” So much for small talk.
    “You know what happened. You said you spoke to the police.”
    “I want to hear it from you.”
    I can’t do this. I can’t keep reliving my attack for the edification of others. “Is this visit personal or professional?”
    “What do you think?”
    “I’m asking.”
    “I’m your brother.”
    “Who’s suing me,” I remind him again.
    “What happened, Bailey?” His tone indicates that he will keep asking until he gets an answer.
    I provide him with the bare essentials of the assault. The words stick to my teeth like toffee, and I have to pry them loose with my tongue. I watch Gene’s eyes as they alternately widen and narrow. I note the creases in his forehead as his brow furrows in obvious dismay. I watch his lips turn down. “You look more like your mother than our father,” I remark at the end of my story.
    He looks startled. “How do you know what my mother looks like?”
    “I saw a picture of her once, in one of Daddy’s scrapbooks.”
    “I didn’t realize he kept a scrapbook.”
    “Yes. Quite a few, actually.”
    “I’d like to see them sometime.”
    If I don’t oblige, I wonder, will he sue me for them? “How’s your mother doing?” I ask. I don’t know Gene’s mother. We’ve never met. But I always thought she had a kind face. Maybe that’s just the way she photographs.
    “She’s doing well. Enjoying her retirement and her grandchildren.”
    Gene has two sons, ages seven and nine. I can’t remember their names or the last time I saw them, probably when the youngest was a baby. “How
are
your boys?”
    “They’re great. But we’re talking about you now,” he says, as if suddenly remembering why he is here.
    “There’s nothing more to talk about.” I used to be someone who had lots to say. I had opinions and interests. I was complicated, multifaceted. Then I was raped.
    “I just don’t understand,” he says.
    “What don’t you understand?”
    “How it could have happened.”
    I explain the situation again, how I was hiding in the bushes,how the man snuck up behind me, how he overpowered me. Was Gene not listening the first time?
    “What the hell were you doing hiding in a bunch of bushes at that hour of the night?” he demands angrily. “You had to know how