Heart So Hollow (Dire Wolves Book 1), page 70
Glancing at the ground, I see a broken limb lying a few inches away. The bark’s flaked off, leaving the smooth, dried out wood beneath. A quarter of the way down, there’s a jagged, razor-sharp nub where another branch snapped off. I slowly crouch down and grasp one end in my hand. It’s about 30 inches long, the weight familiar and comforting. I rise back up and rotate my wrist, swinging the limb at my side. Glaring at Bo’s back, muscle memory takes over and I tap the end of it against the side of my sneaker. But this time, I’m not in a softball diamond. And, this time, I’m not aiming for a ball.
I lunge forward and start running toward Bo, the leaves, rocks, and loose brush recoiling like a spring floor under my feet. As I come up behind him, I angle my hips and sashay to the side. Raising the limb, I bring my other hand up, clenching the wood in my fists as I reel back. Rotating my torso with my shoulder, I bring it around with the weight of my entire body and smash Bo square in the shoulder blade with a force harder than any home run I’ve ever hit.
The limb splinters in half with a crack that echoes through the woods and Bo flies forward, falling face first onto the leaf laden hill. He flips over, gasping for air through yells and curses while his feet spin out, kicking up leaves and dirt as he tries to get up. He reaches back and jerks his gun out of the back of his jeans, thrusting it out in front of him. His eyes are wild, darting around as he aims the gun into the shadows, searching for his assailant.
Grinning with pride, I stand squarely at the bottom of the hill, glaring at him, so close I could reach out and touch him.
Superstar Maguire’s right, asshole.
Bo stares out into the woods, petrified, then sees the broken limb laying on the ground. He looks up, his eyes darting through the trees. He’s not stupid, he knows it’s not big enough to have fallen and hit him hard enough to break. But he also thinks he’s the only one left out here.
Slowly, he stands and listens, hearing nothing but the forest sounds. Once he’s satisfied there’s no one there, he turns around and pulls up the back of his shirt. As soon as he lifts his arm, he winces in pain, letting out a groan. He finishes pulling up his shirt, and when he does, I see a six-inch gash where the broken nub of the branch tore through his muscle. It’s bleeding. A lot.
Bo reaches back and swipes his fingers across it, rubbing them together as he studies the blood and curses under his breath. Finally, he pulls his shirt down and continues up the hillside, picking up the pace a little. I glance down and spy something in the leaves. I can just make out the faint outline of my torn, red bikini underwear with the lace waistband lying next to a fallen poplar branch. I watch Bo continue trudging up the hill, looking back periodically with paranoia.
I wait to make sure he doesn’t turn back and realize what he did.
Soon, he disappears over the crest with the rest of my clothes and I start up the hill after him. But I don’t care what he’s doing now, I need to figure out where the hell I am. I reach the top of the hill and walk another short distance until I emerge from a tree line onto the gravel shoulder of a road.
Across the road, lined with honeysuckle, is an abandoned garage with a shadow of a sign bearing the painted cursive words, Grumpy’s Motorcycles. It’s barely visible, but I recognize it, without a doubt. I’m on Grisham Road. It’s a long way, but if I take this road west, I’ll eventually come to another entrance to Palomino.
Bo crosses the road and continues across the cracked asphalt to the garage. He disappears behind the flaking cinderblock building and a minute later, I hear the engine of a car. I watch with seething rage as his white Lancer appears from around the side of the building and pulls out onto Grisham. Seconds later, his tail lights fade into the distance and I’m left on the side of the deserted road, a poisonous mixture of fury and betrayal simmering in the pit of my stomach.
Focus.
I have to get to Colson. I have to show him where to find me, so he can lead me back home.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
Barrett
One Year Ago
I shouldn’t have let my emotions get the better of me. But we’re all human and make mistakes, especially when my best friend is accusing me of trying to fuck her fiancé. It’s all too ridiculous, even for me.
I blow up Brett’s phone until she blocks me. Then, I blow up Bowen’s phone until he blocks me, too. At that point, I don’t care if she knows I’ve been calling him non-stop. He can tell whatever lies about me he wants. It doesn’t matter now. I should’ve just called her right after it happened, work and morning routines be damned. Maybe I was still in shock.
That morning, when Bowen said he could come fix my outlet, I’d just finished drying my hair when I realized my shirt was still hanging in the laundry room with the rest of my clothes in the dryer. After flying down the stairs and tearing through my kitchen in nothing but a pair of purple lace panties, I grab an armful of clothes and run back into the kitchen, only to let out a shrill scream when see a tall, dark silhouette standing at the counter next to the refrigerator.
Clutching my clothes, I stumble backward, curling in on myself in terror. I’m about to take off running through the dining room to the back door, naked or not, when I catch a glimpse of Bowen’s broad grin in the dim light. I stare at him, frozen, with my jaw hanging.
“Shit,” Bowen chuckles, “sorry, sweetheart.”
I let out a livid groan, wrapping my arms tighter around myself, “What are you doing here?” I snap. “When did you come in?”
“Got you a new outlet,” he replies, lifting a white box and jiggling it between his fingers, “I texted you when I was on my way. Didn’t you get it?” He steps around the corner of the counter and leans against the island.
I blink a few times, still trying to get my bearings, “No. I mean, I don’t know. I haven’t looked at my phone.”
Now that I know there’s not some masked intruder in my house and I won’t be murdered before work, I can calm down. But it doesn’t last for long because, even though it’s just Bowen, I’m still standing in the middle of the kitchen in my panties—and only my panties—trying to cover myself with a wad of loose laundry. This is beyond embarrassing.
Jesus, he probably saw my tits and everything.
“Doesn’t matter,” he pulls the new outlet out and tosses the box onto the granite behind him, “it only takes a couple minutes to replace.”.
“Oh, good,” I swallow hard and refocus, “sorry for screaming at you. I’ll go change and be right down.”
I start to scurry past him, but his leg flies up and he plants his boot on the pantry door with a thud, blocking my path. At first, I just stare at his leg, unable to process why it’s there. My eyes dart up to his face, his expression is unchanged. He’s looking at me with the same nonchalance as before, unbothered by the fact that I just screamed bloody murder and, by the way, I’m not wearing any clothes.
“Excuse me, Bowen,” I say with a hint of sarcasm.
He likes fucking with people, including me, but it usually takes the form of trash-talking banter or engaging the child locks on the back doors of his truck so I can’t get out right away.
“Before you go, I wanted to ask you something.”
Seriously? Now?
I look at him impatiently, hoping he’ll hurry it up so I can go put some clothes on, “What is it?”
“Has Brett told you anything about the guy she works with?” he asks.
“Which guy?”
He tosses his hair out of his eye, “The guy that put a gun to her head.”
I glance down at Bowen’s leg, still planted on the pantry door, “I know he works there.” I keep my tone light, because there’s something about Bowen that doesn’t seem right.
“So, she did tell you about Colson,” there’s a hint of smugness in his tone, “she told me about him when we met, but said I’m the only one who knows what happened with him.”
Shit.
Bowen gives a shake of his head, “It doesn’t matter.”
Like hell it doesn’t…
“How much do you know about him?”
“Look,” I hood my eyes dismissively, “I’ll talk to you more about this when I come back downstairs.”
He ignores me and continues, “I assume you know about his stalking, but are you aware he’s a murderer, too?”
After a long blink, I furrow my brow, “What?”
Bowen nods, “I’ve been trying to get her to see that she can’t just go back to being friends with him like nothing happened. But you know her, she’s stubborn as hell and downplays everything. She thinks she can handle it on her own.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” I squint and shake my head, “what do you mean he’s a murderer?”
As soon as Bowen casually drops this bit of knowledge, I suddenly forget that I’m standing in front of him in nothing but underwear and an armful of laundry covering my chest.
“I didn’t tell Brett, but I knew who he was before she ever told me about him.”
“How?”
“He was friends with a girl I knew in high school. But, after a while, he became obsessed with her.” Bowen reaches in his pocket and pulls out a folded-up sheet of paper, “He finally got arrested for it.”
Bowen unfolds the paper and holds it out to me. I shift the clothes in my arms and take it from him. It’s Colson, alright, and he looks the same as he did in college; dark auburn hair, striking blue eyes, and his expression is eerily similar to how he looked at that party where he snubbed Brett for Dacia Ferguson.
Colson fucking Lutz…
Here it is, an official mugshot with Colson’s name and face on it. And beneath it is the charge—menacing by stalking.
“It didn’t go anywhere, though.” Bowen continues.
No, it usually doesn’t. Stalking is notoriously difficult to prove and notoriously downplayed in the courts when it comes to convictions and sentencing. And it would seem, according to his admission of following Brett back to North Bay, that he just honed his skills since then.
“He kept at it until finally this girl disappeared one night and they found her body a week later.”
This sounds vaguely familiar…
“OK,” I hand the mugshot back to Bowen, clutching my clothes against my body again, “so why isn’t he in prison now?”
“Because she was out in the woods in the heat and the rain for a week, rotting in a drain pipe.” His words hit me like a punch in the chest. “No evidence and no witnesses, so he graduated, went off to school, and eventually found Brett.”
I shake my head in disbelief, “Why haven’t you told her any of this?”
“Would you like to go to work every day knowing you have to see a guy that murdered some girl he was stalking?”
“No, I wouldn’t like to. But just because you don’t like something doesn’t mean you should ignore it. You need to say something”
“Maybe.” Bowen glances down at the floor, “She’s been really stressed out lately. Her book’s finished and she’s waiting to hear back from agents, so I get it. But she’s been distant, forgetting things, on edge all the time.” Bowen pauses, and then looks up at me as he takes a breath, “Do you think she…” he trails off and I just look at him, unsure of what he’s getting at. “I mean,” he finally lowers his boot back to the floor, “do you think he’s already gotten to her?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like,” Bowen crosses his arms and settles against the edge of the island, “do you think he’s already fucked her?” he asks, emphasizing each word.
His question catches me off-guard and I feel goosebumps skitter up my neck and over my scalp. Why would he go straight to that? Bowen holds my gaze, the corners of his eyes squinting ever so slightly as he slowly lets out his breath. He’s saying something without actually saying it. The tension rises, becoming a thick cloud in the kitchen, and I suddenly realize that I don’t want to be having this conversation—or any conversation—with Bowen anymore.
“No,” I brush off his question with a shake of my head and don’t elaborate further.
With an exasperated breath, he pushes off the counter and steps toward me in one stride, “She tells you everything. Do you think she’d tell you that?” I recoil in surprise when I suddenly feel his fingers brush my hip.
Quickly, I move to the side, trying to create some space between us. He’s too close, and he shouldn’t be trying to touch me. And why the hell am I still standing here in my underwear?
“You OK?” Bowen looks at me with surprise, as though I’m the one who’s done something unexpected.
He’s standing between the island and pantry door, still blocking my path. “I need to go upstairs. I need to get dressed,” I clip as I angle my shoulder toward him.
“Oh, yeah, go ahead,” Bowen smiles, but doesn’t move.
A silent conversation initiates and, in an instant, my kitchen turns into an interrogation room. This is now weird, and I need him gone. But he doesn’t budge, looking down at me with an eerie sense of amusement.
But I’m not going to be intimidated by him. “Please move,” I say firmly, locking him in a dead stare.
Finally, Bowen shifts his weight and steps to the side, not taking his eyes off me. I stare right back at him while I scoot past, as close to the pantry door as I can, and hurry down the hall and up the stairs.
For a brief moment, I don’t know if Bowen will actually leave. But when I hear his truck start in the driveway a few minutes later, relief washes over me and I rush to get dressed and get out the door for work, deciding to deal with this later.
I don’t get the chance, though.
By evening, Brett blows in like a tornado and leaves the shreds of our friendship in her wake. No matter how much I yell at her, she’s convinced I’ve done the unthinkable. Everything happened so fast that I didn’t even get a chance to talk to her about Colson, his mugshot, or the story Bowen told about him.
And, as angry as I am, I can’t blame her. There’s a reason she believes it, and after the bizarre interaction with Bowen in my kitchen, I know Bowen did something. I just don’t know what.
I send Brett messages on all her socials, but I know that’s useless. She’s so hit and miss, there’s no telling when she might see them. I debate having Katie or Emma talk to her for me, but I don’t know if that’ll make things worse, so I decide to hold off for now. There’s still a chance that things will cool down, isn’t there?
I’ve been on the phone with Katie for over an hour now. She’s my only connection with Brett at this point.
“Brett just sent me screenshots of the texts between you and Bowen,” she says disapprovingly, “what in the holy hell is going on? Why are your boobs on his phone?”
Jesus Christ. Everyone’s seen my tits and I don’t even know what picture they’re talking about.
I don’t blame Katie for being outraged. I would be, too—if I’d actually done it. Nothing about this makes sense. I don’t want to get with Bowen. I never have. Because the first time I met him was when he showed up at Calhoun’s and Brett was head over heels for him, which means he was off-limits from the get-go. I didn’t send him those texts and I sure as hell wouldn’t have sent him a nude!
“If you accidentally sent it to him, just say so,” Katie’s tone softens, “it happens. I mean, it’s fucking embarrassing, but it’s better than the alternative.”
“I didn’t!” I tell her, yet again. “There’s no way Bowen should have a naked picture of me.” Something is off with those texts. They shouldn’t exist, because I never sent them. “Katie, can you please send those screenshots to me? There’s something really weird going on.”
I wait impatiently until my phone starts vibrating as the pictures start rolling in.
ME (8:42PM): 824 Hibernia Hills
ME (8:42PM): The key is under the yellow flower pot on the porch
ME (9:02PM): (Attachment)
BOWEN (6:42AM): Barrett what are you doing?
ME (8:06AM): I’m going to tell Brett about this.
BOWEN (8:18AM): You should
“Oh my god!” I holler at my screen as soon as I see the picture of myself posing in my bathroom.
I recognize the picture immediately, and I remember exactly why I took it. I was going to send it to Anna’s friend, Harrison, who I’ve been texting with for a couple months. Luckily, I had a sudden moment of clarity and chickened out. But I kept it because, frankly, I look damn good.
All the same, it shouldn’t be on Bowen’s phone. And the more I stare at the screenshots, I realize there are quite a few things missing from them. My thumb flies over my screen, opening my text thread with Bowen and comparing it to the screenshots.
ME (8:42PM): 824 Hibernia Hills
ME (8:42PM): The key is under the yellow flower pot on the porch
BOWEN (6:42AM): Barrett what are you doing?
BOWEN (7:26AM): Your outlet’s fixed
ME (7:28AM): Thanks. I appreciate you coming over, but you shouldn’t have been hanging out in my kitchen in the dark and then prevented me from leaving when I had basically no clothes on. And you trying to touch me wasn’t cool, either.
BOWEN (7:31AM): You know I’d never try to make you uncomfortable.
ME (7:52AM): And why were you asking me weird questions about Brett and Colson?
BOWEN (8:01AM): Because I know you’re lying to me
ME (8:05AM): I’m not aware of anything going on. But if you’re worried about Colson, you need to talk to her about it, not me.
ME (8:06AM): I’m going to tell Brett about this.
BOWEN (8:18AM): You should
I’ll lie to Bowen all day, because he’s not my best friend—a fact that was conveniently erased from our conversation. No wonder Brett thinks I’m a lying sack of shit. But how…
Then it hits me while I stare at the time stamp above the picture. I know what he did. I know what he fucking did. He had my phone that one evening. He could see anything he wanted, send anything he wanted, and erase anything he wanted…
