Heart So Hollow (Dire Wolves Book 1), page 56
Colson gazes back at me with a glint in his gemstone eyes, “Tradesies...” he murmurs.
I stare at him, astounded that he’s finally admitted something—anything—to me.
“You can’t do this,” I whisper, panic building in the pit of my stomach, “You can’t do this, Colson. You can’t just come into my house and steal my underwear and—” I stop short, I haven’t even broached the topic of the painted wall, the knives, and…
I’m still not to the point where I can outright accuse him of tampering with my birth control pills. For some reason, I still can’t decide whether someone else actually did it or if I’m a victim of my own decaying consciousness.
I grab my phone off the desk, pull up the creepy text from this morning, and thrust it into Colson’s lap, “What are these?” I demand, “Tell me. Now.”
Colson picks up my phone and starts scrolling through the texts. His face cycles through a mixture of blank stares, faint smiles, and rounded eyes, none of which I know how to interpret. After about a minute, he leans over and slides my phone back onto my desk.
“Those are really interesting,” he murmurs with indifference.
I squint at him with indignation, “That’s it? Interesting? You sent them! Explain that last photo. Who took it?”
“What did your boy think of them?” his voice oozes with condescension.
The way he says, your boy, or some other pejorative term every time he refers to Bowen grinds on my nerves, like I’m pretending to have a whole relationship with someone else just to annoy him. All the same, I don’t tell him that Bowen doesn’t know about the texts.
“He knows it was you in the house and he’s planning on shooting you if he catches you. So, stop it!”
Colson’s eyes glimmer with excitement, “Ooh,” he shivers sarcastically, “who doesn’t love a little bloodlust?”
I clench my jaw and narrow my eyes, “Maybe I should let Bowen shoot you.”
“Would that make you upset?” he asks.
“Would what make me upset?”
“If your boy tried to kill me?”
I knit my brow, caught off-guard by his question, “I mean…yeah…I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”
Colson leans forward again, his eyes boring into me, “I didn’t ask about anyone, I asked about me. Are you worried about something happening to me, or are you worried about something happening to him? Because either one is fine with me.”
I stare at him, appalled. Is this a game now? A competition?
“You’re nuts. You’re fucking nuts.”
“So, you’ve said. But you seem to like it since you only point it out after I’ve made you see God,” Colson gives a lackadaisical glance out the window, “so, why does Bowen think it was me in your house?”
The way he says Bowen’s name is unnerving. It’s a different tone than jealousy or spite. There’s a deeper, more sinister meaning to it, but I don’t know what it is.
I take a deep breath, “Because he knows what happened back in college.”
“Does he?” Colson’s tone hitches with a hint of intrigue, “Any other reason?”
I narrow my eyes, “What are you getting at?”
“If he thinks I took your underwear,” he traces the arms of his chair with his finger, “he must think I did everything else, too.”
I blink, studying Colson, “Why did you do everything else?”
“He didn’t tell you?” he sounds slightly surprised.
“Why don’t you tell me,” I say with irritation, swiveling in my chair and bending down to pull my tote out from under my desk.
I dig into the interior pocket and produce the worn, folded up paper I’ve been carrying around since Bowen tossed it across the counter at me.
“I’m not the first person you’ve done this to,” I unfold the paper and hold it out in front of him, “Who were you stalking, Colson?”
Colson stares at the photo of himself, not moving a muscle.
Finally, he looks up at me, “Where’d you get this?”
“Bowen,” I lower my arm, letting the paper crinkle in my fist, “I know you’ve been arrested for stalking. And I know it was in Canaan. Why were you there?”
Colson’s eyes bore into me, a darkness slowly seeping across his face like a cloud moving over the sun. He remains motionless, like a marble statue. And, finally, after a minute, a malicious smile tugs at his lips.
“Oh, Bo…” he drags his name out in a melodic whisper and slowly turns his gaze to the photo frames sitting on the filing cabinet behind me.
My breath catches when he returns his attention to me, glaring across the desk with those eyes—the same eyes I saw four years ago.
Black…dead…
“Has he been telling my secrets?” Colson murmurs with a tilt of his head.
“Please,” I plead, “please, just tell me. Do you know Bowen?”
“Instead of asking what I know about Bowen, maybe you should ask Bowen what he knows about me. Because it’s a lot more than one arrest and no conviction.”
“You tell me,” I rise from my chair and drop his mugshot onto my desk, “tell me why you’re doing all this. Why are you painting the name of Bowen’s ex on the wall and putting knives through pictures?”
Colson’s eyes meander out the window as if he’s lost in thought, “Bowen’s the kind of guy who’s too pompous for security cameras, isn’t he?” All I can do is stare back at him in confusion until he continues. “He’d rather shoot anyone who comes onto his property without permission. Fortunately for me, to shoot someone, you have to be able to see them,” he emphasizes the last two words with pure irreverence.
“Is that where you hang out now—in the shadows outside my house?” I ask, “What’s your end game? I’d really like to know because a whole hell of a lot of good you’re doing me right now!”
Colson rises and closes the space between us, towering over me, “Seems I do you a lot of good, Brett. I take care of you all day—listening to you, feeding you, protecting you, loving you…” he pauses, letting his words sink in, “I give you everything you want. And that’s why you let me lay you out on this desk and shatter you into a million pieces, rules and regulations be damned.” He turns his head and leans into my ear, “Because I’m the only one you break the rules for. You’re a good girl, a loyal girl, but right now, you’re trying to decide whether or not you have the audacity to come back home where you belong.”
Colson’s standing so close, I have to tilt my head back to look at him, “You have a lot of nerve saying you love me when you’re doing everything you can to wreck my life.”
A smile spreads across his face, “You know I love you more than I love myself or anyone else in this world. You don’t understand it now, but later, you’ll thank me for putting you through all this. And, years from now, you won’t be able to imagine a time when we were apart.”
“My choices are not yours, Colson,” I seethe, “you don’t get to pop in whenever you want, fuck shit up, and then dip out for another few days. You don’t know what I want.”
“Of course, I do,” he murmurs coolly, “I know you’ve been chasing that high I give you. You might think you’ve found it somewhere else,” he cracks a smile, “but it falls just short, doesn’t it? You have his entire body at your disposal and you still prefer to fuck my knife until you come all over the handle like a filthy…little…cum…slut.”
My shoulder jerks forward and my hand flies to his face. But he catches my wrist before it can make impact. I try to tear it away from his grasp, but he only squeezes it tighter, the corner of his mouth twisting into a half-smile. A moment later, he turns and kisses the top of my hand, still clutched in his fist.
“Fuck you, Colson!” I spit with all the venom I can muster.
“Honeybee,” he drawls, his deep voice grinding into my chest, “I’m just waiting for you to say the word. Then we can stop pretending this wasn’t the inevitable outcome. And, when you do, I’ll be the one on my knees for you.” He tosses my hand to the side and turns to leave, “Meantime,” he taps my doorframe just like every other time he leaves my office, “maybe Bo will tell you some more stories.”
My breath catches for a moment, and then I do the most childish thing I can think of. I grab the paper bag off my desk and hurl it at Colson’s back. But he’s already gone and it hits my door, falling with a crunch onto the charcoal grey Berber carpet. I collapse onto the edge of my filing cabinet in defeat, listening to him chuckle as his footsteps fade away down the corridor.
I don’t leave my impromptu lunch laying on the floor. As much as I want to smack Colson, I’m not above eating my favorite sandwich, and I don’t think he did anything to it—poison or otherwise. I shut my door and tear open the bag of kettle chips as I stroll around the desk to the window. No sooner do I pop one in my mouth when I catch Colson’s familiar figure appear as he emerges from the building into the parking lot.
I watch him, crunching my chips, as he makes his way across the asphalt, I assume toward the front gate for the remainder of his shift. He approaches the row of dumpsters on the right and I stop mid-chew when I see his arm fly up and his fist slam into the side of the black metal.
Hard.
So hard that, even from my window, I can clearly see thin ribbons of blood trailing from his knuckles down to his fingers. He doesn’t even look down. It’s as though he can’t even feel it.
●●●
DAVID BRENTWORTH (US): Hey Brett, can you come to my office in 20?
I don’t think anything of Dave’s IM at first, it’s a simple request, made countless times for countless reasons on any given day. And, like any given day, I don’t give it a second thought until I walk into Dave’s office and see Eric leaning against the wall and another woman with chin-length sandy blonde hair sitting in front of Dave’s desk. When she turns to look at me, I’m slightly surprised. It’s Casey Rearden, the VP of Operations, also Dave and Eric’s boss.
Why is Casey Rearden here?
She never comes over here. And she looks like someone ran over her cat. When I sit down in the chair next to her, she doesn’t so much as crack a polite smile. When I glance at Eric, I notice he’s not smiling, either. But, then again, Eric hardly ever smiles.
“Brett! Thanks for coming,” Dave swivels around from his computer and clears his throat, “this is kind of awkward, so I’ll just get to the point. We have a big problem. We need to discuss what happened the week before last.”
I stare back at him blankly. I can barely remember what happened last week. It all seems like a continuous daisy chain of calamity. How did I go from focused and driven to my own worst enemy in such a short span of time?
Dave must notice my clueless expression, “When you and Colson were supposed to be fixing the server room keypad,” he clarifies, glancing off to the side awkwardly.
Supposed to be? My stomach drops and all the air is immediately sucked out of the room. Oh, God…
All eyes on me, I remain motionless, trying to combat the rush of adrenaline flooding my body.
Shut down. Game over.
The last thing I want to do is move, but I make myself arch my brow in subtle acknowledgement.
Dave nods and rests his elbows on his desk, “Oddly enough, Nate was the one who suspected something and brought it to our attention. We’ve already spoken to Colson, so I just need to hear the story from you.”
Where is Colson now? Probably off somewhere murdering Nate.
“Story?” I squeak, my throat getting more parched by the second.
Keep it short. Find out what Colson said to them first.
I’ll play dumb until the cows come home. And I’ll stay that way until they’re sent off to the slaughterhouse to be turned into New York Strips. I refuse to be the one to say what actually happened in that office. Someone else is going to have to die of embarrassment before me.
Dave glances at Casey and then at me, “Yes, it’s very important I know exactly what happened in case I need to talk to legal. I expect we can resolve this internally, but we don’t need to make it more uncomfortable for everyone than necessary.”
I feel queasy, light-headed. I’m going to pass out, just face plant right in the middle of Dave’s office. The humiliation of it all will be monumental. I’ll never be able to recover.
“You’ve always been the epitome of professionalism,” he continues, “so I want you to know that I’m not accusing you of anything. But we just can’t have this happening, it gets way too messy.”
“Right,” I feel my face getting hotter the longer Dave keeps talking.
“We all make mistakes, OK? I just didn’t expect something like this would end up all the way up on Casey’s desk before I heard about it. It kind of caught me by surprise.” Dave claps his hands once and leans back in his chair, “Alright, there’s my required reprimand, so can you have this wrapped up by COB?”
I blink, “Wrapped up?”
Dave shrugs, “You can just pull the report, can’t you?”
I furrow my brow, “The report?”
“Yes,” Dave gives an exaggerate nod, “so we can send Army the goddamn report they’re whining about so they know our servers aren’t being infiltrated by terrorists and their technology hasn’t been sold to foreign agents.”
Casey shifts uncomfortably in her seat. She looks like someone who probably thinks crap is a curse word. She also looks like she’s been sitting on a pinecone for the last 10 minutes. I continue staring at Dave like a deer in headlights, having no idea what he’s talking about.
Finally, Dave arches his brow, muttering to himself, “Maybe I’m not making myself clear,” he takes a breath and clasps his hands, “Colson said the keypad on the server room was operational after it was repaired, but Army’s saying they never received an updated report verifying the down time and when the system came back online. So, now we have them and their cybersecurity people screaming bloody murder, and if we don’t get that report to them yesterday, we’ll be in breach of contract.”
My eyes fly open, “Oh, yes!” I exclaim louder than I mean to, startling Casey, “I tried to run a new report same day, but the system wasn’t updating, so I had to call Tony in IT. He said he needed to run a software patch and it would work, but then I totally forgot to run it again. I’m so sorry, I’ll do it and send it out immediately.” I’m also talking much faster than I mean to.
“I told you,” Eric mutters to Dave, “they’re redundant systems. We could’ve just sent them the backup log for the entire zone…”
“Ah!” Dave exclaims, “Very good. Casey got the initial call from their people, so she’s been running around tracking down all the information. When she talked to Nate, he said he’d also had problems with running reports for other areas. So, here we are.”
“I—I’m very sorry,” I stammer, “that’s so embarrassing.” Maybe if I act humiliated enough, Dave will just want me out of his office, as if much acting is required, “Please don’t fire me.”
Dave rolls his eyes and swivels back around to his computer, “Brett, have I fired anyone today?”
“I don’t know...”
“No,” Dave shoots me an annoyed look, “I haven’t. So why would I start with you?”
Great, now I can go back to my office and die of a heart attack.
“Thank you,” I slowly rise from my chair, “I’ll do it right now.”
Thank God I clam up during stressful situations instead of not being able to shut up. I practically run back to my office with tunnel vision, hyper-focused on the task at hand until I press Send and shoot off an email with five attachments, seven recipients, and two paragraphs of way more information and detail than anyone probably wants.
After saving my job and avoiding devastating humiliation, I sit back in my chair and notice the crinkled white paper sticking out of the top of my bag. I reach down and pluck it out, unfolding it to take another look at 18-year-old Colson glaring menacingly at the camera.
If he were to be arrested for anything, I guess this would be it.
Maybe he just got better at his craft…
All the same, his voice keeps repeating the same words over and over in my head.
“Maybe you should ask Bowen what he knows about me.”
But I can’t have this conversation over text. I need to calm down, gather myself, and think about what I’m going to say. I’ll ask Bowen about him later tonight, after I get home.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Brett
One Year Ago
Wind in my face and sweat dripping from every pore should be soothing, especially when the air starts to chill as evening approaches. I even ride this particular loop a second time, adding 45 minutes to my total time. But I can’t concentrate. No matter how hard I push or how high my heartrate gets, I can’t quell the anxiety.
My mind is still reeling from my last conversation with Colson.
Who was Colson stalking and why? He obviously knows Bowen, and presumably Bowen knows him. He painted Emily’s name across the wall and shredded a photo from high school. Everyone except Evie…
None of it makes sense. Dire Ridge is 45 minutes from Canaan, and neither Colson or Bowen have ever given any indication that they know anyone in either place.
I shift my Tahoe into park and sit for a moment, gazing out the windshield at the blue sky over the roof, stars beginning to come into view. Even though I took my time on the bike ride and driving home, Bowen’s truck is still gone, and I don’t want to go into an empty house. Technically, I won’t be alone, but Waylon doesn’t care about my problems unless it means I’ll lay down on the floor next to him and scratch his head, which isn’t totally out of the question.
I wish Bowen was here. I wish his headlights would flood through my windows and he’d pull up next to me, we’d go inside, and I can spend the rest of the evening on the sofa with him, laying on his chest with one leg slung over his hip, just like on any other night—before my house turned into a scene from one of the horrors on my bookshelf.
