Heart So Hollow (Dire Wolves Book 1), page 60
I slam the door, lock it, and start the ignition as fast as I can. Seconds later, I’m skidding around the gravel in a three-point-turn before finally gunning the engine down the driveway. When I look in the rearview mirror, Hannah’s SUV is still sitting in the driveway, but she’s still nowhere in sight.
As soon as I’m on pavement, hitting 50, I take a breath and reel back, slamming my fist down on top of the wheel.
I left the box. I can’t believe I left the box.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Brett
Present
“It’s been a week. How do you feel?” Judy asks while she sips tea from a chunky ceramic mug with pink snails all over it.
It looks like it was handmade by a child—at least the snails, anyway—hand-thrown with flat cutouts of dusty pink glazed snails pressed unevenly into the sides. For some reason, the longer I stare at it, the more excited I get, like something really big is about to happen.
I can’t hold back my smile, “I don’t know what kind of voodoo shit you’re into, but whatever you did last week changed everything. I just feel…different.”
“That’s so wonderful,” she beams, “we can’t erase the past, but sometimes all you need is a way to take the edge off—step outside all the chaos, if you will—so your mind has the space to heal.”
I let out a snort and nearly descend into uncontrollable laughter at her uncanny response.
“Give me an example,” she peers at me over the lip of her mug, “how do you feel different?”
“I went out on the trails by myself—completely alone. I shouldn’t have, but I did.”
“Why not?”
“You should never go out into the wilds by yourself, and I’ve always known that. You can get lost, hurt, or attacked. But I don’t know…” I can’t explain the serenity that’s replaced the crippling anxiety, “this time, I didn’t feel like I was being watched anymore. I didn’t feel like I would turn around and see him. But…” I hesitate, the gnawing feeling still there, if only in the background, “I know I’ll see him again, just not right now.”
“In that case, what will you do when you see him again?”
I hesitate, because I’m not sure what to say. I know what I want to say. But I don’t, because if I tell her the truth, I know she’ll try to talk me out of it.
●●●
The next time I open my eyes it’s morning, and I’m lying in bed, sprawled out on my back. It’s light in my bedroom, which seems odd at first. I always draw the curtains—always. But I’m relieved to wake up in the light after hearing the strange sounds outside last night. Nothing is ever as frightening in the daylight.
My muscles feel stiff, like I haven’t moved all night, but for some reason, I don’t feel like getting up. I blink, trying to wake up as my eyes glide across the ceiling, to the dresser, past the sliding glass door. But in an instant, they dart back to the window.
Because the monster is staring back at me.
He’s at my sliding glass door, standing square in the middle of the frame, watching me. His dark silhouette blocks out the morning light, tall, broad, and strong. And those eyes.
The devil’s eyes.
I can’t move. My muscles strain and my heart beats faster the harder I try to lift my arms and flex my core. I’m trying to jump up, scramble out of bed, run away as fast as I can, but I’m frozen in place. My jaw tenses as I try to open my mouth and scream, but my lips stay shut. My eyes are the only part of my body I can move, darting back and forth in panic.
My eyes are open. Why can’t I move?
I recognize his face, fixed in a blank stare. He looks the exact same as the last time I saw him, except now he’s dressed in black camo pants and a black t-shirt.
Hunting…
Finally, he moves and reaches for the door handle. My heart seizes, and to my utter horror, the glass door slides open.
I hate sliding glass doors. This house was built before I had any say in the matter, but I should’ve insisted. I should’ve insisted on closing it up. Sliding glass doors are weak points, too easy to gain access.
He moves slowly and methodically, stepping inside the room, sliding the door closed, and flipping the lock shut behind him.
Why wasn’t it already locked? I always keep it locked.
All I can do is blink. And when I do, his shape changes, only for a split-second. He’s not a man, he’s a horror, a tall demon covered in black fur, with pointy ears and claws that sprout from his massive hands. He has a long snout, white teeth with long fangs, and his mouth fixed in a snarl. It’s only a flash in my mind’s eye, and then he returns to his human form with smooth skin, full lips, and piercing black eyes.
He strolls toward me, coming to a halt at the end of the bed. I still can’t move, paralyzed as he takes hold of the blanket and sheet and begins pulling them down my body, making my skin crawl as the cotton brushes against me.
As if in a trance, he drops them on the floor and then sinks a knee onto the mattress. My chest aches with each pound of my heartbeat as he begins crawling up the bed, over my body. I feel his clothes, I hear him breathing. I try to stiffen my muscles, but he nudges my knees apart with his like they’re dead weight.
Hovering over me, he reaches up and runs a hand up my stomach, pushing my shirt up to my chest. I cringe, but my muscles are still frozen. My lungs heave and there should be sound coming from my mouth, but there’s not. He splays his hand out on my stomach and begins to slowly run his palm over the firm curve of my bump. Nausea roils through me.
Don’t touch me…just leave…get out…you’re the wrong one…
His lip trembles and they part a little more with each labored breath, until I can see into his mouth, his teeth clenched while his eyes remain fixed on my stomach. Finally, he runs his hand along the underside of the curve, dragging his thumb in a wavy trail across my skin. Then he retracts his hand and raises up on his knees. Staring down at me with a macabre mixture of hatred and desire, he begins unbuckling his belt in smooth, fluid movements.
No…no, no, no, no…
I can’t even close my eyes and wait for the nightmare to end. Instead, I have to watch him destroy me again, grind me into dust under his muddy boot. All I can do is decide where to fix my eyes, which is on his face because I don’t want to see what’s happening anywhere else.
Where are you? Maybe he’ll come back. This time, the right one will come back…and he’ll kill him.
He jerks my sleep shorts and underwear out from under me, my limp legs flopping back down as he throws them to the side. I recognize the smell of his clothes and the sound of his breathing and the sting of his hand as he grabs my thighs.
Stop…stop…stop…
He plants one hand next to my shoulder and glares down at me. When he finally speaks, it’s only three words.
“Say my name.”
Even if I could move, even if I could speak, I’ll never do anything he says ever again. But something in his eyes tells me he already knows that. There’s a pause, and then his mouth twists beneath his dead eyes.
No—
His hips slam into me and every cell in my body screams. The adrenaline crashes through me like ice water as my brain tries to block out what’s happening. My lungs are on fire and my stomach turns with every jolt to my core.
Despite the onslaught, I see him reach behind his back and pulls something out of his pocket. When he brings his hand back around, I hear the click and see the flash of the blade. But I still can’t scream. My mind is a hurricane, flashes of lightning behind my eyes incinerating any cohesive thoughts.
Gripping it with white knuckles, he brings the Buck knife to his ribcage, letting his fist rock back and forth with his hips. I don’t feel anything, all I can see is the knife, fixed against his torso.
He leans down, his mouth brushing my ear, “I’ve been waiting for you,” he murmurs, before pulling away.
He jerks his arm back and then thrusts it forward, sinking the knife into my stomach.
But before I can feel the blade slice through my abdomen, I wake up.
It’s a nightmare, but not like the others I’ve had up until now. I don’t wake up screaming or crying like before. I should have, but this time, it’s different. I wake up with a start, but I’m still. Alert, but calm. No blood, no carnage, everything is as it should be. But I’m still left with an unsettled feeling.
Fortunately, I can move again. The sleep paralysis subsides and my hands fly to my belly, feeling every inch, still intact. My skin is still pristine, my baby still safe inside, alive.
Once I’m sure, I stretch each limb across the bed, briefly reminded that he—the right one—is still gone. I roll over and toss my legs over the edge of the bed, allowing myself another minute to wake up before I stand. When I make it to my feet, I make my way to the bathroom.
But something is off. Maybe it’s the residual effect of such a vivid dream, but it makes me stop at the end of the bed. I hesitate, staring straight ahead into the bathroom as I let the feeling wash over me. Then I catch something dark in the corner of my eye and slowly swivel my head to the sliding glass door.
He’s there.
The monster is there, staring back at me.
I can’t breathe because, at first, I don’t realize that there are two panes of glass between us. But glass or not, he’s there; a tall black silhouette, staring at me with those eyes. Dead eyes.
The devil’s eyes.
He’s wearing black camo pants…a black t-shirt…
But it was just a dream…a nightmare…
I gasp as he slowly reaches up and tries the door. It catches in the lock and won’t budge. Although imperfect, it’s not like other sliding glass doors; the lock is different, by design. But it moves. The door fucking moves. It doesn’t open, but I hear it hit the lock in the frame.
I blink. Are you sure he’s real? I blink again. He’s still here, and the door just moved. The sounds, the footfalls on the front porch…
Feet smaller than a bear, but bigger than a deer…
My heart pounds, but I fight to keep my breathing steady. Slowly, I step to the side and turn to the door. I’m awake, and I know what I’m seeing.
Don’t second-guess yourself…
I take a step toward the door, and then another. His eyes move, glancing down at my feet with each step, until I stop only an arm’s reach from the glass. I force my muscles to work and begin to raise my hand. He looks down, drawn to the movement. I bring my hand up and splay it out on the glass in front of me. He shifts his eyes back and forth between my hand and my face, the corner of his mouth curling at my invitation.
After a few moments, he slowly raises his hand and presses it against the glass, eclipsing mine. I wait, and then to my utter shock, his warmth begins to seep through the cold glass.
Seconds later, I hear a whisper, and suddenly realize it’s my own voice, “I’ve been waiting for you, too.”
I close my eyes in a long blink. And when I open them again, the warmth is gone, and so is he.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Colson
One Year Ago
8:24.
I don’t know what makes me pull up the camera feed when I do. Maybe it’s because Brett’s not in her office yet and I thought she would be by now.
I tap the orange dot indicating activity and see the timestamp, 07:02:11. Bowen opens the front door and walks outside with his backpack and a travel mug, except his truck isn’t parked in the driveway.
It wasn’t last night, either, which is odd.
He crosses the gravel and strolls down the hill toward the barn. I squint at my phone. I’ve been watching him for the better part of a year and this is the first time he’s deviated from his morning routine in any way.
I tap the next orange dot, this one with the timestamp, 08:14:32. It’s subtle, but the lower half of the window on the right side of the house detonates, the screen bursting out onto the lawn. A few seconds later, a blue duffel bag comes flying out, hits the grass, and then Brett pops her head out.
I watch with a growing sense of dread as she tumbles out of the window head first and grabs the bag, running to the driveway. But then she drops the bag next to the driver’s side door of the Tahoe and turns back, heading toward the garage.
What the hell is she doing?
She goes back inside the house and then I see her activate the camera in the living room. I skip ahead to real-time and, to my horror, a silver SUV pulls into the driveway and Hannah Bailey gets out of the car. She stops at the brick walkway and stares at the open garage door for a few moments before pivoting and going inside the garage.
I’m out the door in less than 30 seconds, sprinting across the parking lot to my car. Something happened, but I don’t know when.
I missed something. I fucking missed something.
Skidding out the front gate, I gun the engine, racing down country roads toward Canaan. I haven’t done this—driven these roads this fast—in eight years.
Try to catch me now, assholes…
It takes 18 minutes, 26 seconds to get to Brett’s house from the front gate of Wolfsson. But I don’t give a fuck about the speed limit. I’ll bring every statey, deputy, and officer in the jurisdiction to that house with me.
Every few moments, I glance at my phone snapped into its holder on the vent, the screen split by the driveway and living room feeds. My Bluetooth finally connects and I can hear talking. Brett is standing opposite Hannah, holding a cardboard box. Their voices are hushed at first, until Brett’s voice echoes through the room. Soon, Hannah’s shouting back at her.
All but drifting around the next curve, I pump the brakes and then push the STI to 70 on the next straightaway. Then I do a doubletake as Hannah leaps toward Brett, knocking the box out of her hands and grabbing her by the shoulders. A few seconds later, they’re going at each other in an all-out brawl.
“Goddamnit!” I roar, pounding the steering wheel and speeding down the road as fast as I can while still keeping the tires on pavement.
I’ll fucking kill that bitch when I get my hands on her.
It all happens quickly, but Brett gets the upper hand and gives Hannah a good whaling before she’s able to get away and run back out of the house. Shifting my focus to the driveway feed, I watch her throw two bags in her car and peel out of the driveway.
It’s not five minutes before I see the white Tahoe in the distance, getting bigger and bigger as it speeds toward me on the opposite side of the road. As she gets closer, I hit my horn four times, trying to get her attention. She flies past me and I hit the brakes, turning the wheel and spinning the STI around in the middle of the road. The smell of burning rubber hits my nose as I squeal after her, catching up with the Tahoe in no time. As soon as I do, I call her.
“Hello?” Brett answers, her voice cracking.
“Go to the park,” I bark into the speaker, “I’m right behind you.”
The parking lot at Black Ridge is empty when I whip into the space next to Brett’s Tahoe. I jump out of my STI and jog around to her door. When I tug on it, it’s locked at first and it takes her a few seconds to look down and find the unlock button. I jerk the door open and pause.
Brett slowly swivels in the driver’s seat, a dazed look on her face as her eyes wander for a moment before meeting mine. Her cheeks are flushed and there are thin, pink scratches across the top of her chest just below a faint bruise that’s beginning to form around her neck.
Her entire body is shaking and she stares at me for a moment before her breaths become more labored and her chin begins to tremble. I reach for her, gently grasping her waist. One hand grabs my shoulder while the other grabs the top of the steering wheel for stability. She starts fidgeting like she doesn’t know what to do.
“Hey,” I say softly, leaning closer, “look at me.”
Brett’s eyes dart to mine and she stares at me with such intensity, she looks like she might have a heart attack. Her hand flies from the steering wheel and grabs my other shoulder. Digging her nails into my skin through my shirt, she pitches forward and her mouth tics before her face contorts and she descends into a barrage of screams and sobs.
As soon as I pull her to me, she throws her arms over my shoulders and claws at my back like she’s about to be dragged away by the fucking devil himself.
“Breathe,” I murmur into her ear, “breathe for me before you pass out.”
She’s convulsing in my arms and I feel my chest tighten with rage at every one of her cries.
What the fuck happened in that house?
With an annoyed grunt, I gently peel her off of me for a few seconds while I reach across my stomach and tear the Velcro loose on my vest. Pulling it over my head, I hastily drop the entire thing on the asphalt with a clatter before grabbing her and pulling her back into my chest. As soon as the side of her face hits my shirt, her gasps slow from erratic whimpers to long, deep breaths as her body starts to calm.
“I got you,” I press my cheek to her forehead, “I promise, I got you.”
Holding her in a tight embrace, I give her a couple more minutes before I try to pry her body away from mine enough to look at her flushed cheeks and wet, swollen eyes.
“Tell me what happened,” I grab her face, making her focus on me, “baby, please tell me what happened.”
Brett takes a deep breath and everything comes pouring out in one, long stream of consciousness; how that motherfucker waited in the dark for her to come home, attacked her, threatened her, and then locked her in the bedroom.
He should thank whatever demented god he prays to that I don’t find him right now and go at his dick with a vegetable peeler. Because he better believe that if anyone’s going to fuck Brett with their gun, it’s going to be me, and she’ll ask me nicely for it and thank me afterward.
“It wasn’t you,” she wipes her tear-stained cheeks, muttering something about texts and pills before she trails off, staring down at nothing while shaking her head, “I don’t know what else, but it was him. It was all him.”
Brett can’t focus. She keeps looking around like she’s expecting Bowen to appear out of nowhere.
