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

brink, the drop confronted me dizzyingly. I hugged the rusty rooster weather vane, getting my first up-close view of the camera perched barely out of reach below.
    It was mine.
    The swung-out viewfinder framed the stretch of roof I'd just come across. No glowing green dot, so my passage hadn't been recorded.
    Cars whined by on the turn below, light streaming fluidly across metal, disorienting me further. I leaned down and snagged the unit. The digital memory had been wiped. And the camera hadn't been set to record. So why was it here? As a decoy?
    The light in the Millers' bedroom switched off. Fair enough--it was ten-thirty. Yet I couldn't help but find the timing suspect.
    Awkwardly hauling the camcorder--a cheap Canon I hardly ever used--I worked my way back along the roof's ridge and then jumped from an interior corner to our bed of ivy.
    I hurried inside and sat at the sleek, dark walnut dining table--one of Ariana's designs--and turned the camera over in my hands. With optical zoom, extended battery life, and a straight-to-DVD recording option, it was fairly idiotproof.
    I got up, shoveled water over my face, and then stood with my hands resting on the lip of the sink, staring blankly at the closed blinds two feet from my nose.
    Finally I went upstairs to my office. A chipped desk, bought at a fire sale, predominated. I checked the cabinet where I stored the camcorder, stupidly confirming that yes, it was missing. Downstairs, moving with purpose, my thoughts burning like a fuse. Collecting the two discs, I compared them. Identical. I forced myself not to take the stairs back up to my office two at a time, which would wake Ariana.
    I retrieved the spindle of blank DVDs from my office bookshelf. Same cheap kind, all right. Same exact cheap kind, down to the write speed, gigabyte capacity, and the brand stamped on the polycarbonate. Since I'd started burning shows from TiVo last year, I'd used maybe a third of them. The plastic cover said Paquet de 30. A quick count showed that nineteen remained, stacked unused on the spindle. Could I account for the missing eleven?
    Downstairs once more--this was turning into a workout. In the entertainment center, I found four discs containing reruns of The Shield, two 24s, and a Desperate Housewives (Ariana's). An American Idol from the Jordin Sparks season bore visible beer-glass rings. So eight total. Despite the fact that I rarely rewatched shows, I'd yet to throw away any of the DVDs once I'd burned them. Which meant three were unaccounted for. Three.
    I scoured the cabinets beneath the TV again, then craned to see if a disc had fallen behind the unit. Nothing. Three missing DVDs, of which I'd received only two back.
    I checked the porch, letting in a blast of cold air. No magical delivery had shown up. I closed the door, dead-bolted it, set the security chain. I peeped out the peephole. Then I turned and put my back to the door.
    Was the third DVD en route? Had I been caught by another camera from somewhere else as I'd recovered my own from the roof? Was that why my Canon had not been set to record?
    The obvious finally hit me, and I laughed. It wasn't a laugh of amusement, not at all. It was the kind of laugh you let out when you lose your footing and fall down concrete steps, the kind of lying laugh that says everything's okay.
    I crossed to the kitchen. I sat at the dining table. I popped the loader on the camcorder.
    The third DVD was inside.

    Chapter 7
    Fade in on the rear of our house. Horror-movie low angle, a few branches adding menace to the nighttime view. Cutting into one side of the frame was the green corrugated-plastic wall of the shed where Ariana cultivated her flowers. Advancing, the point of view pushed through the brushy sumac and began a psycho-killer crawl toward the other side of the wall I sat facing, the wall holding the flat-screen I was staring at. The sound track, were there one, would have been shrilling strings and huffy breathing. Silence was worse.