Heart So Hollow (Dire Wolves Book 1), page 42
After getting over my initial shock, I begin scanning a ProPublica article titled, “PREDATOR IN THE HEARTLAND by Sydney Van Doren.”
“How…” I trail off, scrolling through the extensive article. There are names, there are places…then my jaw drops as soon as I come to two photos side by side, and then another—of myself—further down, “Oh my god…” There are no words, just shock and awe—definitely Sydney’s style.
“Are you alright?” she asks.
“Yeah…yeah…” I take a deep breath, “this is just…wow. I take it this is what she’s been working so hard on lately.”
“You don’t have to read the whole thing now, but it’s—” there’s a pause while she finds the right words, “mind-blowing. There’s a lot that you didn’t know—that none of us knew, until the right people started asking the right questions.”
“Apparently…” I mutter, still astounded.
“But check it out,” she pivots to the videos, “click on the first TikTok video and please refrain from screaming.”
With a macabre mixture of excitement and foreboding, I scan the other links, which include the same story but from other major news outlets, and click on the first video link. It finally loads in the app and a woman with long, curly black hair, deep purple lips, and cat eyes sits in front of a swanky black bookcase with backlighting. Her name is Hailey Hawks, and she’s talking about my book. In and of itself, it’s not surprising, given its instant success.
But Hailey Hawks is not a Bookfluencer, per se…
She’s a true crime podcaster.
Hailey Hawks is what happens when TikTok meets Dateline. Her personality is off the charts, but she’s also a really good writer and amateur journalist. If you see a woman with long, curly black hair, dramatic makeup, who’s wearing a Slipknot t-shirt and dancing across the screen to Shakira while raising awareness about an unsolved case in North Dakota, it’s probably her.
Hailey’s niche is featuring books based on true crime and bridging the gap between two giant audiences. However, this time is different. This particular video is a teaser for her upcoming episode.
Hailey holds up my book, speaking to the camera.
“Y’all know I only focus on nonfiction, but this morning my inbox was filled with messages about an article that just dropped…a cold case from way back when I started…then readers started contacting me about this book and its author, who are named in said article…and then this restraining order came out, with a name…guys, this is a bombshell to say the least…I don’t think it’s coincidence, there’s something big happening here…”
Now Hailey’s talking in vague terms about police reports and Facebook posts and timelines and patterns and cover-ups…
“Stay tuned for the next show dropping in three days…make sure to turn on your notifications…”
“Brett,” her voice breaks me out of my stupor, “this is it.”
And she’s right. Social media is the wild, wild, West. Web sleuths find things, people talk, and it spreads like wildfire. Nothing is ever truly forgotten. It just depends who’s listening…
I open my mouth to speak, but something catches my eye in the reflection of the microwave. I spin around to look out the dining room window at the line of pine trees. A branch bobs back and forth and a bluejay flies into view, landing on a limb. It gives a shrill squawk and hops to a higher branch.
I saw it. I know I did.
There’s crackling, like she’s chewing something, “Brett, are you still there?” she calls.
“Yeah…yeah, I am…” I linger on the branches a few moments longer and then slowly scan the rest of the landscape, “I thought I saw something outside.”
“You saw him, didn’t you?” she asks, already knowing the answer.
“Yeah,” I steady my breathing, which takes more effort now that I’m alone on the property, “it’s the first time since your brother left.”
“How do you feel?” she asks, gauging my anxiety.
She knows what’s happening. She’s been here through everything that happened years ago, dealing with the aftermath, the anxiety and the panic attacks, recognizing all the triggers, trying to move on…
“Alright,” I reply, my voice evening out. And it is, talking to her makes it better, because I’m not really alone. “I just have to focus. Keep my head in the game.” I give a laugh, “Saddle up or get left behind, isn’t that what your brother always says?”
“He says a lot of things,” she snickers, “I wish I could come and stay with you while he’s gone.”
“I know, but it’ll be fine,” I reassure her, “it won’t be for that long. And the next time I see you, everything will be different.”
“We’re attached at the phone,” she states gravely, “if you need anything, I’ll be watching.”
“Thanks,” I smile, her calming influence contagious even over the phone. “Speaking of which, I need to call Valerie and let her know the status of my car.”
I’m actually looking forward to making plans with Valerie. Granted, I shouldn’t be surprised I like her so much. In many ways, she reminds me of who I used to be. Maybe that’s why she’s here. Scratch that—I know that’s why she’s here.
Like I said, no coincidences.
But, in other ways, it’s unfortunate. It only adds insult to injury, because it’s like watching myself live out the nightmare all over again and there’s nothing that I can do to stop it.
She’s here, she’s part of this story, and when the times comes, I’ll have to shatter her world, too.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Brett
One Year Ago
No amount of coffee can quell the disappointment that washes over me whenever I refresh my inbox and there’s nothing from a literary agent. No rejections, no requests for more chapters, not even a confirmation of receipt.
Crickets.
I know it’s not instantaneous, and I may never hear back from anyone, but I hate waiting without any end in sight. I used to fill my spare time by working on the book, but now I don’t even have that, which is both a blessing and a curse. Maybe I can start a new book and finish it in a matter of days with all the spooky inspiration I’m getting from Colson and his deranged behavior.
I feel better having told Barrett everything, and I’ve made a point to stay away from the office as much as possible until I figure out what to do. But even with the extra space, I can barely concentrate on anything, including reading books I put off so I could finish mine.
This is what I’m doing on Saturday afternoon after I’ve run out of distractions. I finish another chapter in a thriller that would, at any other time, make me blind to everything else around me and get up to pour another cup of coffee. Bowen is running back and forth between the basement stairs and the garage door, carrying duffel bags and gun cases out to his truck.
He looks like he’s packing up to go to war, but it’s really just paintball with Jay, and after that, they’re going coyote hunting. I shouldn’t think anything of it, but I don’t want him to leave. I don’t want to be alone.
It’s stupid, I’ve lived by myself for almost four years and now I’m turning into a nervous wreck just because Bowen’s leaving for the rest of the afternoon. I used to live in a condo surrounded by thousands of people right outside downtown, I used to come and go at any time of the day or night, and even there, I never felt as many eyes on me as I do here. Even though I’m hidden between forest and cornfields, I can’t shake the eerie feeling that something—or someone—is constantly watching me. I haven’t seen anyone who doesn’t belong here since I ran into Hannah in the hallway months ago, but it’s still there, and when my belongings aren’t disappearing, different ones appear out of thin air.
I slide the creamer back onto the shelf and swing the fridge door shut. When I turn around, Bowen slides a folded piece of paper across the countertop.
“What’s this?” I ask, unfolding the printout.
And when I do, I come face to face with a ghost.
My chest tightens when I see Colson staring back at me from the creased paper. It’s an old photo, more similar to how he looked in college. He’s wearing a black t-shirt and his auburn hair is longer, popping against the institutional light blue background. His head is bowed slightly, his vibrant aquamarine irises glaring at the camera. His mouth is affixed in a sinister smirk that sharpens his jawline.
He looks terrifying.
My eyes move to the top of the paper, drawn to the official logo of the Canaan Police Department. I scan the block of text flanking Colson’s image that lists his birthdate, height, weight, hair color, and eye color. One detail, printed beneath his photo, catches my eye and makes my stomach drop. Under the arrest date are the charges.
Menacing by stalking and trespassing.
When I look up, Bowen’s resting on his elbows on the other side of the granite, his dark eyes waiting for my reaction. He nods at the paper, “That’s who you’re dealing with.”
My heart sinks the longer I stare at the printout, scanning the words over and over, taking in Colson’s face that looks like a possessed version of who he is now.
“He was arrested for stalking,” I glance at the arrest date, “eight years ago?”
Colson would’ve been a senior in high school, just like me.
“I take it he neglected to mention any of this to you,” Bowen runs his fingers through his hair, brushing it out of his face.
Yes, but I already knew he was like this…
I look at the mugshot one more time, “Who was he stalking?”
Bowen eyes me curiously, “Does it matter?”
It doesn’t, I guess. But I still want more information.
I furrow my brow, noticing another detail that gives me pause, “Why was he arrested in Canaan?”
“What do you mean?”
“Colson is from Dire Ridge…”
Bowen blinks, “Honey,” he scoffs, “stalking doesn’t stop at the county line.”
“I know, but—” Nothing else comes out. I don’t know where I’m going with this. Something about it seems odd, I just can’t put my finger on it.
“Doesn’t seem to bother you,” Bowen’s eyes narrow as he studies me from across the counter.
“It does,” I realize my hands are shaking, so I take a deep breath and set the paper down on the countertop, “it’s just a lot. I don’t know what to do with all this.”
Bowen cracks a smile, “You don’t see it?”
I cock my head in confusion.
“Everything is right here in front of you,” Bowen’s tone grows harsher, “he assaulted you back in college, he dragged you out of bed, naked, and put a gun in your mouth.”
My jaw tightens, my face feels hot, and tears begin pooling in the bottoms of my eyelids. I nod, thinking that’ll satisfy him and make him stop talking. I don’t need him reminding me of what happened. He’s supposed to be the one who takes my mind off of all this fucked up shit—even though I’ve gone and done something colossally dumb and made it all worse. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to stave off the tears.
“Put. A. Gun. In. Your. Mouth.” Bowen repeats, his voice reaching a crescendo that feels like a hammer to my chest.
“And it happened to me, not you!” I shout across the counter with such intensity that my voice cracks.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to tamp down the overflow of emotion that I so desperately hate. When I’m satisfied that I won’t melt into a blubbering puddle on the floor, I open my eyes and blink back the residual tears.
Bowen’s voice softens, “Back then, you ran and never looked back. What changed?”
Because Colson’s nice? Kind of. Sometimes he’s not nice. Sometimes he’s really not nice. Maybe what changed is that Colson gave me a reason to believe it didn’t happen the way it seemed, a reason to believe there was a more acceptable—albeit still frightening—explanation that justified the reason it happened. Because who wouldn’t prefer a freak neurological event over the possibility a psychopath tried to murder them?
Bowen’s voice jolts me back to reality, “I know.” He’s staring at me, stone faced.
I stare back, letting the dread settle in the pit of my stomach, “You know what?”
“I know why you can’t wrap your mind around any of this, and it’s the same reason he thinks he can get away with it. He knows you don’t want to believe he’s that kind of person.” Bowen shakes his head, “Brett, you prepare for the worst, which makes you smart, but you also hope for the best in people. It’s admirable and sometimes I wish I could be more like you, but I think it blinds you to how things really are, and you don’t see the signs.”
He’s not wrong. Isn’t that what Barrett just asked me just days ago—if I’m normalizing Colson’s behavior because I want so bad for him to be normal? Add it to the list of ways I’m losing control of reality.
Bowen pushes off the counter and skirts the island, settling against the range right across from me, “It used to be you couldn’t even talk about this guy without having a panic attack. Now, you’re buddies with him and the fact he’s been arrested for the very thing you’re afraid of doesn’t bother you?”
“What do you want me to do, quit my job?” The lump in my throat reduces my voice to a near whisper, “I have to try and make all of this normal so that I can function every day,” I swallow hard, pushing the lump back down, “he showed up out of nowhere and I have to try to treat him like anyone else I see at work because there’s nothing else that I can do.”
“Exactly,” Bowen grits his teeth, “he showed up out of nowhere. I don’t want you to disappear and someone find you rotting in a ditch somewhere just because you wanted to pretend everything was normal.”
I cringe, squeezing my eyes shut as I shake my head, “No,” I snap, “if he wanted to do anything, he would’ve done it already.”
Wouldn’t he?
“Are you that blind?” Bowen gives me a look that makes me realize how naïve I sound, “Did you ever stop to think that he’s toying with you? You watch more true crime than anyone I’ve ever met. Why do those psychos stalk and murder people? I don’t know how his fucked-up mind works.”
I long blink, having nothing to counter with that doesn’t sound ridiculous.
“But you do,” Bowen bows his head, his eyes searching, “and maybe that’s what gets your panties wet.”
My eyes round and I lift my head to meet his gaze.
What?
I can’t read Bowen’s face. It’s a look of curiosity with a shadow of judgement and contempt. But it’s so subtle that I wonder if he’s going to burst out laughing at the absurdity of his statement. I just stare back, my mind swimming, not knowing what to say.
Bowen pushes off the counter and steps toward me, closing the space between us. He takes a stance square in front of me and rests his hands on the granite on either side of my waist. Then he leans down until his nose is almost touching my forehead. Usually, I would relish being this close to Bowen because whenever he comes close, a wave of affection is soon to follow. But right now, it’s nothing like that. Right now, he’s looking at me the way a cat looks at a cornered mouse.
“You know,” Bowen lowers his voice, “he probably walks by your office, just to see if you’re there.”
The Bowen I know is gone, and I don’t recognize him anymore. His presence is intimidating and oppressive, nothing like I’ve ever seen. His voice turns foreboding, like a distant rumble of thunder signaling a coming storm.
“Does he come visit you on his break?” Bowen tilts his head and stares into my eyes with unnerving focus, “Does he sit in your office and chat? Ever asked you to lunch?”
The hairs raise on my arms and goosebumps explode over my skin. I’m suddenly overcome with the same eerie, nervous feeling I get when I’m alone and I feel like I’m being watched. Except I’m not alone right now. Instead, Bowen is towering over me, and it feels like he knows more than he should.
“What do you talk about?” He gives a shrug and pushes his face so close to mine, his nose brushes my cheek, “Words matter, Brett.” It doesn’t sound like a question, but rather like he’s watching the events of the past two days play out right in front of him.
And he’s fucking angry.
I don’t think Bowen’s ever been angry at me for anything. And the one time it sounds like it, it seems like he knows about something he shouldn’t. That is, unless he’s just really perceptive and noticed that I’m turning into more of a basket case every day. Whatever it is, he’s big and he’s stifling and I feel like I’m about to crawl out of my skin.
My voice trembles as I look up at him in confusion, “Why are you saying this?”
“Because I know you, Brett. Once you get over your Fort Knox exterior bullshit, you’re actually a very passionate person. It only took me a few hours to figure you out.” Bowen leans closer, bumping my forehead with his, “And I know how passionate you can be when you start to care about someone.”
I can’t even bring myself to look Bowen in the eye, which is humiliating because I know what he’s doing and I’m still too fucking scared to say anything.
He lowers his voice to nearly a whisper, “Do you think when he’s sitting in front of you, he’s reminiscing,” he lets his gaze travel down my body, “thinking about what you look like? Wondering if you feel the same as you did the last time he was inside you?”
My stomach turns sour and I feel like the room’s gone cold.
I tense my jaw to still my trembling chin, “Can you please stop?” It comes out as a scratchy whisper.
But Bowen’s not done, “Did you let him kiss you?” he asks softly, “Did you let him bend you over right there or did you have the decency to go somewhere else?”
The rage and terror finally boil over and I slam my hand on the edge of the counter, “Just stop it!” I shout, squeezing my eyes shut as the hot tears finally run over.
“Why?” Bowen scoffs, pushing away from the counter, “Does it bother you? How does that make you feel?” In a flash, he slams his fist into his chest, “How do you think I feel?” he shouts with such force that I flinch and my hands instinctively fly up to my face.
