Heart So Hollow (Dire Wolves Book 1), page 21
Hildy reaches into her coat pocket, my eyes trained on the key ring as she fishes it out. She tosses it into the identical teak bowl that Bowen has, except hers is on the entry table near the hall closet under a rustic wooden sign with “Rhinehardt” etched across it.
“Let me know the next time you’re going. I might need to restock again,” I shake the bag of pretzels and give her a hug as I make my way across the kitchen toward the front door.
As soon as I hear the rustle of bags and Hildy open the refrigerator, I open the front door and, in one fluid motion, sweep my fingers over the teak bowl. I hook my index finger through the bottle opener key ring and tuck it into my pocket as I pull the door shut behind me.
●●●
The key to remaining anonymous is not drawing attention to oneself. You want eyes to gloss over you, unnoticed, as you blend into the landscape—hiding in plain sight.
You’d think I have experience with breaking and entering. I don’t. I just know what security guards look for and what actually looks suspicious. I help them develop their protocols, after all. This is why I park further away from my destination and I take the path behind the apartment buildings where I can enter the stairwell from the opposite side.
I walk with a purpose, utterly oblivious to those around me, or so it would seem. I use a key to unlock the door and flip the deadbolt behind me like I belong there. On a weeknight, there’s not much activity. Everyone is occupied inside their own homes, hiding from the arctic chill outside.
Marco probably wonders what I’m doing back in his home so soon, and then immediately wonders why another bowl of cat food isn’t appearing before him. Instead, I give him a scratch under the chin and take out my phone to switch on the flashlight, swiping past the latest text from Bowen in the process.
BOWEN (5:48PM): Gonna be late…Riley’s truck is being weird…following him home
Perfect. But I don’t tell him that.
ME (5:48PM): No problem! Hope it’s nothing serious…or expensive…
BOWEN (5:49PM): I know I said I’d make dinner
ME (5:49PM): Seriously, don’t worry. I need to run out to CVS. I’m out of tampons…
BOWEN (5:50PM): I thought you didn’t start til next week
Find me another man so attentive to my menstrual cycle.
ME (5:50PM): Good thing I noticed tonight, huh?
BOWEN (5:51PM): Touche...want me to pick something up on the way home?
Just enough time for a split-second decision. Who am I? This is so unlike me.
I make my way down that dark hallway and through the open door into Hannah’s bedroom. Just like she did at my house. And, just like every hotel room I check into, I begin my search on the right side of the door. Scanning the walls, opening drawers, checking under the bed…
Hannah’s clean and organized, which makes the process much easier. Once I come to the walk-in closet, I pause and rolled my eyes. I probably should’ve started here to begin with. And I would’ve been right, because after scanning the shelves, racks, and floor with my phone’s beam of light, I spy two plastic storage totes stacked neatly in the corner beneath a row of sweaters on hangers. The top one is clear, filled with extra shoes. But the bottom one is an opaque purple tote. I pop the lid and scan the contents inside.
Sweaters. Lots of sweaters.
I gently flip up each one, working my way to the bottom, until I find what I’m looking for. Part of me doesn’t actually think I’ll find anything, so when I do, it catches me off-guard.
My grey Lake George hoodie with Navy-blue block letters is neatly folded at the very bottom of the stack of sweaters—my grey Lake George hoodie I didn’t even know was missing. Not only that, but when I lift the hoodie, my missing earrings with the gold stars in them are laying in the corner of the tote.
Not just a creep, but a thief, too.
Before I can reach for them, a pop and a creak cut through the air and immediately break my concentration. My heart almost stops and I freeze in terror.
I hear the jingle of Marco’s collar and a high-pitched croon as Hannah greets him at the door. Did Hildy say when Hannah was supposed to get home? I didn’t care enough to ask. It doesn’t matter, though, because she’s here now.
A ghostly whirlwind, I place the items back at the bottom of the tote and fit the top back on, holding the latches open with my fingertips so they closed silently.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…
Rising from my crouched position, I gently replace the clear tote on top of the purple one, keeping my eyes on the closet doorway the entire time. Creeping toward the door, I glance around. There’s nowhere to hide. I stop to listen.
Hannah moves about the living room and kitchen, turning on lights and turning on the TV. I glance down at my phone, lifting it to turn it off before sliding it back into my pocket. My eyes are trained on the bedroom wall as if in a trance, my hearing taking over as my strongest sense, amplifying every sound. I can hear her, but I have no clue where she’ll go next.
The closet isn’t safe, not when Hannah’s just returned from a trip. Fortunately, I can still hear her puttering around in the kitchen, some HGTV reality show buzzing in the background. I slowly lean out of the closet, peering around the corner. Then, something catches my eye. On the dresser, directly to the right of the closet, at eye level, is a tube of lipstick.
My tube of lipstick.
The black tube of Maple Sun with the gold band is standing on end next to two bottles of perfume, like it belonged there all along.
My eyes dart from the dresser, to the hallway, to the bed, and back to the lipstick.
Another split-second decision.
I snatch the lipstick off the dresser and lunge toward the far side of the bed, falling to my hands and knees between the bed and the wall. Collapsing to my stomach, I shimmy under the bed, taking refuge alongside a lone sock that looks as though it hasn’t been missed in months. Making myself as thin as possible, I peer beneath the bed skirt, relieved to have bought some time.
But I’m still trapped under Hannah’s bed. I can’t stay here much longer, lest I be discovered and set off a horrifying chain of events. And besides that, I have to get home. If I can’t escape for a long time, dealing with that explanation will be just as awkward.
Feeling the vibrations of Hannah’s footsteps coming down the hall, I take a breath and freeze. The shadows of her feet appear on the carpet and stop at the edge of the bed as she switches on the bedside lamp, letting the warm glow flood the room. Can she hear my heartbeat? It sounds like someone is pounding on the door. I flinch as I feel the mattress and bed frame shift above me with her body weight.
Are you kidding me?
She can’t be going to bed, at least not this minute. I wait and listen.
“Hey.”
A bolt of terror shoots through my heart and, for an instant, I truly think Hannah’s talking to me, calling me out in the creepiest way possible because she is a total creep. Then I hear her speak again.
“Just got home…”
Thank God, she’s on the phone. I could die of relief right here. But I still need to get out of here—immediately.
“I thought I’d be back earlier, but I stayed for dinner, so I didn’t leave until four…Good, missed talking to you…What are you doing?”
I raise an eyebrow. Maybe she patched up things with her stale boy toy, after all.
“You could stop by…”
No, you could not stop by. Because there’s another creepy woman in this apartment who’s hiding under the bed and needs to get the fuck out of here!
What’s more, if Hannah’s back together with her boyfriend and he comes over and I have to covertly witness anything that follows, I’ll absolutely vomit and then die.
I glare at the box spring creaking above me.
Hannah sighs, “Fine, guess I’ll just see you at Hildy’s…”
Hannah’s silent for a good minute or so. I can hear the deep, muffled, male voice on the other end of the call, but not enough to make out any words. All I know is that he has a lot to say.
“What? I have no idea,” Hannah chuckles. “For real…Yeah, that’s weird…Well, you don’t throw anything away. I should know…”
A moment later, her laughter fades and she goes silent. The distant voice on her phone continues to speak and the box spring creaks as Hannah shifts her weight. My eyes dart to the edge of the bed skirt as her feet appear on the carpet.
“That’s not what I meant,” she scoffs.
The voice keeps going, speaking faster, and even from my cramped hiding place, I can tell the tone of the conversation has changed, and not in a good way.
“But—”
The voice cuts her off.
“I told you, I don’t know. Why are you—”
Whoever she’s talking to isn’t having any of it. Listening intently, all I can pick up are intermittent exhales of frustration, false starts, and uncomfortable shifts on the mattress. A set of tiny feet appear next to Hannah’s as Marco sniffs the carpet and rubs his cheek against her calf.
“I have always been there for you!” Hannah explodes, making me flinch and Marco cower.
“I drop everything to help you,” Hannah’s voice switches from angry to frantic, almost apologetic. “You know I wouldn’t do that. I care about you more than anyone and—”
He cuts her off again. She’s pouring her soul out to this guy, and for what I don’t understand. At the wedding, she acted like she could take him or leave him. Marco pokes his nose beneath the bed skirt. My eyes dart to him, petrified, as he sniffs along the carpet and then looks right at me.
He meows.
I clenched my jaw, my heart pounding against my ribcage, panic building with each twitch of Marco’s cute little whiskers.
“No, don’t—”
Marco crouches down and inches further under the bed skirt, peering at me with curiosity. He takes two steps toward me.
“Hello?”
I hold my breath, my eyes darting between Marco and the underside of the box spring. Hannah goes silent and the voice on the other end of the phone is gone. Something hits the wall with a thud, making my muscles seize in terror. Although startled, I remain motionless, not moving a muscle as Hannah’s phone hits the carpet and bounces into the middle of the floor.
I’m dead. I’m so dead. Why is everything ending up on the floor right here?
Hannah doesn’t move right away. Instead, she takes a series of deep breaths, punctuated by sporadic, muted gasps. A small part of me feels sorry for her, sniveling above me on her bed, having been spurned by her prince in tin foil.
But my sympathy is short-lived. This is also the woman who flirts with my fiancé, went through my house, and stole my shit. She can go to hell. I don’t care about her relationship problems, I just need to figure out how to get out of here before something humiliating happens.
After a few moments, the mattress shifts again and Hannah stands up. I watch her bare feet pace back and forth a few times. Marco is still crouched mere feet from me, halfway under the bed.
My entire body goes rigid as Hannah stoops down and reaches under the bed to take hold of Marco around his midsection. She pulls him out and lifts him up, cooing some gibberish kitten-talk to him.
I’m contemplating throwing up or having a heart attack when I realize Hannah is carrying Marco out of the room, leaving her phone lying on the floor. I listen to her footsteps move down the hall toward the kitchen, where the refrigerator opens, closes, and the pop of a carbonated can echoes through the hallway. Her sparkly crimson painted toes trudge back across the carpet, pausing to pick up her phone, and then continue to the bathroom on the other side of the bed.
I wait, ready to take my opportunity, listening as water begins gushing from the bathtub faucet. The flow pauses for a few seconds when Hannah pulls the lever for the shower. Then I hear water spray out of the showerhead. Still, I remain perfectly still, waiting for the right sound.
There it is.
As soon as I hear the intermittent splashes of water being squeezed out of hair onto the bottom of the tub, I scurry out from under the bed, the lipstick tube still clutched in my fist. It’s probably melted by now. I leap from the room and tear through the apartment on tip-toes as silently as I can. I unlock the door and immediately slow to a normal pace as I step into the arctic blast outside. Making sure to re-lock the doorknob, I smoothly and silently shut the door.
Moments later, I’m nonchalantly floating down the stairs and out to the sidewalk behind the building. Adrenaline still pumping, I keep my guard up until I roll out of the parking lot and I’m safely back on the road as if I was never there.
When I get home, my nerves are thoroughly shot. Bowen is unloading sub sandwiches and bags of chips onto the table.
“Get everything you needed?” he asks, blithely unaware of my dramatic getaway.
I glance down at the plastic CVS bag dangling from my fingers, one box of tampons tucked inside. I nearly forgot to stop at the drugstore in the wake of my perilous escape.
“Yeah, I did,” I call as I saunter down the hall to the bedroom to deposit the box under the sink.
Once in the bathroom, I reach into my jeans pocket and pull out the black and gold lipstick tube. I pop the top and examine the reddish-brown wedge at the top of the metal tube. Rotating it between my fingers, I wonder if Hannah had the audacity to use it or if she just coveted it like a total creep.
I look in the mirror and slide the lipstick across my bottom lip and then my top. I cock my head, studying myself, and press my lips together. Arching my brow, I mouth to my reflection.
Fuck you, bitch.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Brett
Present
“I don’t know why I’m still like this,” I muse, gazing around Judy’s office as I try in vain to pick apart my idiosyncrasies.
“Because it hasn’t been that long,” she smiles in such a way that makes people—or at least me—feel like they’re finally arriving to the proper conclusion after searching blindly for so long.
“I don’t think this feeling will ever go away.”
The realization is jarring, because even though I’ve changed so much and I’ve been able to recover much of what I lost, I know I’ll never be the same person. Nothing will ever be the same as before.
“Not completely,” Judy concedes, “because you are fundamentally changed. The trauma you experienced in college, and then what happened just last year, are more than enough to alter your neurological state. The surveillance, the secrets, the gaslighting—it’s all designed to break you, to hollow you out into a shell of who you once were.”
My eyes fly up to her warm face and I try to quell my shock at her uncanny word choice.
She’s good.
“To you, it’s diabolical,” she continues, “and it is. But to a skilled manipulator, it’s as easy as stopping at the store for some milk. Except, later, he drowns you in it and then you thank him for it.”
And she’s right. He is skilled. He was back then, and I’m sure he still is today.
Only, I’m sure he’s gotten better.
●●●
I knew it wouldn’t take long for something like the restraining order to end up all over social media. Below the picture of me on the Spice Ghouls Instagram page are thousands of comments about the RO. I’ve been ignoring the emails and DMs until now. I received multiple texts even while I was with Tyler and Sydney with links to a few of the many forums and posts tagged with my name.
Once I’m back in my 4Runner, I click on one of them—a Reddit post—and read the succinct preface to a file embedded in the page.
There are a couple of people who this book could be about, but there’s only one who has a restraining order against him filed by BRETT SORENSEN. Thoughts?
My heart races as I click on the file. I don’t even have to read it; I recognize the format and the font and the logo at the top because I know the document well. One copy is folded up and tucked inside my glove box underneath my registration and another is in a filing cabinet at my house. And, not surprisingly, people have a lot of thoughts…
So…is this a true story?
It’s definitely him.
You need to leave her alone, especially if it’s true. This is really traumatizing.
Is that the guy she’s with now?
No it’s a different guy.
You know you’re doxxing these people, right?
My eyes go wide and my breath catches at the next comment, which is accompanied by a photo. I sanitized my social media long ago. But that doesn’t mean other people have. Some people post pictures and forget about them. Other people keep them for different reasons…
It’s a screen shot. His cheek is pressed against my temple and he’s taking a selfie of us. It would be a lovely picture if there wasn’t so much malice hidden behind his striking eyes and gorgeous smile. That picture was taken before I knew what kind of monster he really is.
His name is right there on the screen next to mine. He has a name and a face. And, now, they know. It’s been up there for days, so it won’t take long until he does, too. He probably already does…
So, what do I do when I find out my legal affairs have been leaked to the public? I head for Starbucks, the nearest source of caffeine, of course. Just like last time, trauma calls for coffee, and who am I to fight the addiction? But I order a decaf, because I’m five months pregnant and I have to try and stay Zen. It’s like my body knew when I was ready, when it was strong enough to grow another life instead of the stress and anxiety laying waste to anything in its path.
And I’m sure as hell not about to let anything ruin that now.
Every few minutes, my phone vibrates, muting my music for a split second. The thought crosses my mind to just turn it off, but I can’t do that. What if there’s an emergency? What if—
There’s a sharp crunch and, suddenly, I’m thrown forward. I let out a scream as the back of my head hits my headrest and my seatbelt catches against my chest. I scramble to stomp on the brake again before I roll into oncoming traffic and then throw the 4Runner into park. I freeze for a few moments, bracing myself with one hand on the wheel and the other on the console. There’s a caramel-colored splash of coffee with cream dripping from the gear shift and seeping down into the cracks.
