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

unease starting in my bones and moving outward, eating me up in reverse.
    Falling back onto the couch, I fast-forwarded through footage of our front porch. It's weird how dread turns to impatience--can't wait for the ax to fall. Same shitty picture quality. The oblique angle, I slowly realized, had to be from the neighboring roof.
    Don and Martinique's roof.
    I'd made up the couch like a bed this morning, but already the sheets were shoved around from my fidgeting. Fists pressed to my knees, I waited, watching the screen to see what the action would be.
    Sure enough, it was me again. The sight of my face sent a bolt of ice down my spine. Watching spy footage of me going about my clueless business was something I doubted I'd adjust to anytime soon.
    On-screen, I stepped into view and glanced around nervously. The clothes I was wearing were the same ones I had on now. I appeared gaunt and not a little unwell, my expression sour and troubled. Was that really how I looked these days? The last year had taken its toll on me. How much younger I'd seemed in that bright-eyed picture they'd run in Variety when my script had sold.
    As I stepped off the porch, the picture wobbled a little to keep me in frame. I went blurry, then came back into focus.
    This effect, however minor, set my nerves on edge. The angle on the last DVD had been static, fixed; it suggested that someone had set up the camcorder and gone back to retrieve the footage later. This new clip left no doubt: Someone had been behind the camera, actively tracking my moves.
    I watched myself walk around the house. Studying the ground, my head bent, I paused by the bathroom window. Adjusted my position. Inspected the wet grass. The Millers' chimney edged into the shot. I looked around, my gaze passing disturbingly close to the camera's position, Raymond Burr in Rear Window, only oblivious. A slow zoom to a close-up found my face drawn and angry. I said something to the window, and then the slats closed, pushed down from inside by Ariana's invisible hand. I trudged back to the porch, disappearing into the house.
    The screen went black, and I realized I was standing up halfway to the TV. Breathing hard, I stepped back to the couch and sat again. I shoved a hand through my hair. Sweat dampened my forehead.
    Ariana was in bed upstairs; I could hear the TV through the floorboards. When I wasn't there, she liked to have a sitcom keep her company; she didn't like being alone, as I'd painfully learned. A few cars zipped by on Roscomare, their headlights brushing the family-room blinds.
    Too agitated to sit still, I rushed around the downstairs, closing blinds and curtains and then peering through. Was there a camera trained on our house right now? My emotions were a blur--concern bled through anger into fear. Scored at intervals by the laugh track from the television upstairs, my movements quickened, grew a touch frantic. First the Entertainment section of the newspaper. Then Netflix. Both seemed to point to Keith or someone at the studio. But the on-set altercation had happened months ago--an eternity ago in Hollywood time, so someone outside the industry might have read about it and decided to make use of it to misdirect me.
    A light shone in the Millers' bedroom. Their roof was dark. I thought about how Don had popped out of his house when I'd pulled up. And the new video had been shot from his roof--this morning, when it would have been tough for someone to sneak up there unseen. He was the obvious choice.
    I started out for his house but balked at the brink of the street. It struck me that I might be gravitating toward Don because that was reassuring. He was familiar, a known entity. An asshole, sure, but what reason would he have to film me?
    I went to the front of his house, staying a step back from the curb. Still couldn't make out whether there was a camera set up on the roof. Scrambling up there to search for it was my logical next move. So, clearly, not what I should