The Sitter by R.L. Stine Read Free Book Online

yet.”
    I don’t think she heard me. She was too busy gawking. “The back of the house is probably
all
glass. It must be an awesome view. This is
so
not to be believed. I can’t wait for you to invite me over.”
    I pushed open the passenger door. “Well . . . wish me luck.”
    “Luck.” She flashed me two thumbs up. “I’m off to the spa in Sag Harbor. Call me on your cell when you’re finished.”
    I watched her pull away. Her tires slid in the sand on the road. Then I turned back to the house. I could see a little face watching me from an upstairs window. Boy? Girl? I couldn’t tell. The face was a ghostly image behind the sun’s glare.
    I followed the flagstone walk, then climbed the white steps to the double front doors. Big clay pots of purple impatiens stood on either side of the door. I could hear music inside the house. Reggae music.
    I took a deep breath.
    Go, Ellie.
    This could be a new start. A whole new life. New people. A summer of fun. Maybe a new guy . . .
    I hope the Harpers are nice. I hope they like me.
    I hope this job doesn’t suck.
    I pressed the brass doorbell.

9
    A man opened the door. He was tall and trim, probably in his early thirties. He had short, wavy brown hair over a tanned, square face, a nose that had probably been broken a few times, a stubble of whiskers, and round brown eyes set close to his nose.
    He wore a loose-fitting blue polo shirt, untucked, over wrinkled khaki shorts. He was barefoot.
    He looks familiar, I thought. Have I seen him before?
    I quickly dismissed the idea.
    “Hi. Are you Ellie? I’m Chip Harper.” His breath smelled of gin. And as he ushered me in, I saw that he had a drink in his hand.
    “Nice to meet you,” I said. He switched his drink to his left hand, and we shook hands.
    I gazed into the living room. The blond-wood floors were beautiful. I saw a high, cathedral ceiling stretching over a white balcony.
    Chip Harper raised his glass and smiled. “I know it’s early. I’m having one for the road. I’m heading back to the city.”
    “You . . . go back and forth?” I asked.
    Somewhere in the house someone turned off the reggae music.
    “Yeah, I’m an I-banker. You know. Investment banker, so I have to be in the city. I come out for long weekends. But I’m coming out to stay for a while in June. You know. My vacation.”
    He took a sip of the drink, ice cubes clinking, then motioned to the black SUV in the driveway. “You need a ride back to the city? You can come with me.”
    “No. Thanks. I have a friend. I’m going back with her.”
    He flashed that slightly crooked smile again. His brown eyes sort of took me in, checking out my suit. I straightened my skirt and followed him to the living room.
    My eyes swept over the room. Two white leather couches facing each other, a couple of wicker chairs, a fireplace with black wrought-iron fire tools on one side, a tall window facing the front, colorful pillows spread out along a cushioned window seat.
    A collection of fashion magazines was stacked on a low glass coffee table. Beside it, a Martha Stewart gardening book. Several paperback mysteries were strewn on the table.
    “Hey, Abby? Where are you?” Chip shouted. His voice echoed off the high, white walls. He turned to me. “I think she’s upstairs with the kids. Our bedroom and the baby’s room is down here.” He pointed to a hall at the back. “But the other bedrooms are upstairs. Your bedroom, too.”
    Your bedroom. As if he already had given me the job.
    I gazed up at the cathedral ceiling. The balcony ran the length of the second floor, and I could see the upstairs rooms along it. An enormous antique quilt, red and blue stars on streaming patterns of yellow, hung over the side of the balcony. “It’s a beautiful house,” I said.
    He nodded and took another long sip of his drink. “Yes, it is. I wish I could spend more time out here. Abby and the kids have been staying out here since the beginning of May. But I have to go back