Heart So Hollow (Dire Wolves Book 1), page 76
No audio feed or playback from CCTV could’ve caught it; the subtle darkness that flashes behind Tate’s eyes when he all but guarantees my destruction if I insist on Bowen being brought to justice, whether by legal means or otherwise.
Suddenly, the door flies open and Scott bursts into the room, “Come on, we’re going home,” he nods to the door.
“Scott, good to see you,” Tate greets him with fake enthusiasm, “we were just having a talk about Colson’s plans for the future.”
“Fuck off, Tate,” Scott barks at him before turning to me, “move!”
Just like arresting me in the middle of class, Tate’s threats end up being just for show, too. On the morning of my first court appearance, the clerk can’t find my name on the docket and then, come to find out, the charges had been dropped and nobody bothered to tell me.
A couple months later, I packed up and shipped out 30 miles to school instead of preparing for a trial. But, at this point, the threat of prison doesn’t scare me. There are far worse things on my mind. Like how I should’ve said something to Evie that night.
I should’ve stopped her from going to the park. I should’ve told her about Bowen and not worried about embarrassing her or upsetting her, because what she went through that night was so much worse. Because if I hadn’t worried about anyone’s pride, she might still be here. I should’ve acted when I had the chance. I should’ve done something.
I should’ve fucking listened to my gut.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
Brett
One Year Ago
The grey stone townhouses and luxury apartments on the river give way to sprawling suburban parks decorated with bronze woodland creatures dancing on the hillside. Soon, the manicured subdivisions disappear and the road stretches along vast fields alternating between corn and soybeans framed by tracts of forest. So Ohio...
I feel like I’m outside my body, watching myself do things that seem so alien. I never bounce around from house to house, not knowing where I’ll be sleeping next. I’ve never been a nomad, fleeing out of necessity or boredom. I relish the stationary life; constant, predictable, and full of routine.
Now I’m a refugee.
I never thought I’d wake up one day and realize my home is no longer my own. And maybe it never was. It was always his home, and it’ll stay that way. I’m the latest infatuation, until I’m not. Some things Bowen will never share with anyone—not really.
“At least you still have your money and your skin,” Barrett reminds me, “like it or not, that’s what matters now.”
That’s what matters now…
She’s right, of course. I glance down at my pink racerback tank, the same type that Bowen nearly tore off me while I was fighting him, and the faint bruises along my shoulders and chest. A small price to pay, I suppose, considering the alternative.
Soon, there’s a lull in our conversation and we both become acutely aware of our surroundings. I look over at Barrett, and she does the same, acknowledging the eerie feeling hanging between us. But, regardless, she continues driving west, straight into the sun, keeping an eye on her navigation screen.
“Is this right?” she finally asks.
“It’s the address he sent me,” I look down at my phone and compare it to what’s on her Jeep’s dashboard, “it’s in the city limits.”
“This just feels…”
“Familiar?” I finish her sentence as I stare out the window at the honeysuckle lining the roads I’ve driven countless times before.
Barrett flips her turn signal and swings a slow right as though she’s deciding whether she even wants to. I can feel the anxiety begin to rise the farther we travel down the road, not another car in sight. When we crest the next hill and emerge out of the brush-lined dip in the road, my stomach drops.
Swiveling to the left, I stare past Barrett at Rick and Leona’s chateau-like home at the top of a distant hill and my heart starts beating double-time.
“Where the hell are we going?” I spit in frustration.
“That’s what I’m saying!” Barrett hisses back. “Why did he send us here?”
I nod to a gravel pull-off next to an access road by the woods, “Pull over.”
Barrett whips over and nearly skids to a halt as I glance at the navigation screen—ETA two minutes. Then I drag my finger down the glass, following the blue line toward our destination. It ends at a non-descript green square off the road with no other buildings or houses around it. I let out a frustrated huff, not knowing what to do.
“Is there even a house there?” Barrett murmurs, while keeping an eye on the road in both directions. “Are you sure that was the only app Bowen put on your phone?”
“What? Yeah,” I stammer, “I mean, I think so…”
But now I don’t know. Why did Colson send me an address so close to the Garrison’s property? Was it even Colson? Did Dallas miss something?
“Let’s just drive up and check it out,” Barrett pulls back out onto the road, “we don’t have to get out of the car.”
She follows the directions down a few windier roads I’ve never travelled before and finally turns down a long gravel drive lined with pines. Soon, the pines reveal into a clearing scattered with birches and ashes and maples surrounding a two-story house with dark wood siding, green metal roof, and wide front porch. An ancient, cracked tire swing hangs by a fraying rope from the jagged burr oak in the middle of the yard. Just past the house, the dirt path leads to a pole building with dented white metal siding, the edges laced with rust. Beyond that, the grass dips down and I can see the creek flowing just through the trees.
It looks deserted. I pinch my index finger and thumb together over the screen to zoom out, “What the—” my eyes round in shock, “what the hell is this?”
The more I enlarge the map, the picture becomes clearer. Our destination lies near the western end of the large green square. This square butts up right against a more massive green square with a house situated on the eastern side—Bowen’s house.
Barrett sucks in a breath and looks up, her eyes darting across the windshield, scanning the tree line around the house.
I stare at the map, paralyzed with fear, “Oh my god…”
Barrett moves to shift into reverse, “We need to go.”
Before she can pump the brake, both our eyes dart up to the rearview mirror as a pair of headlights whips into the gravel drive. The vehicle’s tires spin and the engine revs, kicking up dust in its wake. It’s coming fast. Both of us jerk around in our seats as it barrels through the pine tunnel, nothing but blinding lights in the shadow of the trees.
“Shit!” Barrett shrieks, grabbing the steering wheel.
But there’s nowhere to go, and it’s too late. The car bursts into the clearing and looks like it’s about to crash into the back bumper of the Jeep before it jerks to the side and skids to a stop, blocking us in. Only then do I see the rest of the car outside of its bright lights.
It’s a blue STI.
“It’s Colson,” I breathe, my heart still pounding.
A low rumble emits from Barrett’s chest as she scowls over her shoulder. She kicks open her door and propels out of the seat, “Colson fucking Lutz!” she roars, slamming her door so hard, the entire Jeep rocks.
I scramble out my door just as she rounds the back of the Jeep, fists clenched and knuckles white.
“Nice to see you, too, Barrett,” Colson smiles as he walks toward us. He furrows his brow when he sees the dubious look on my face, “What’s wrong?”
“You live behind Bowen?” I blurt out in astonishment, “How?”
Before he can respond, Barrett marches up to him and backhands him across the arm with a crack, “What the hell is wrong with you?” She barely comes up to his shoulder. “I was ready to drive us through the fucking forest!”
Colson glances down at her with amusement and shrugs, “It’s like a drag strip, you get some good speed. Couldn’t you see me?”
“No!” she shrieks. “You could’ve at least—” suddenly, she lets out a scream and stumbles to the side as a giant, black German shepherd appears out of nowhere and pokes its wet nose into her hand.
My shoulders shake with laughter as Barrett hops around in fright. The dog looks up at her with curiosity, its pointy ears twitching as she jerks around. I can’t help it, she’s more wound up than I am. She paces back and forth across the grass, hands on her hips, trying to calm down.
I look up at Colson, “We thought it was a trap,” I mutter before turning back to the Jeep.
I tug the back passenger door open and swing my duffel and tote over my shoulder. I’m tired of carrying them, a reminder of the only belongings I have left. I don’t want to think about that, either.
When I turn around, Barrett is standing next to Colson, much more solemn now. The forlorn look on her face makes me want to climb back into her Jeep, pick up some takeout, and go back home with her to watch Euphoria and send each other memes from across the sofa. But I know I can’t.
My Tahoe is still there. My Tahoe…I scoff under my breath. It’s not even mine. I never got around to adding myself to the title, and Bowen never cared either way. Now I see why…
The GPS tracker is also at her house. She’ll turn it off eventually, but as long as I’m not there, Barrett will be safe and Bowen won’t have any reason to come after her.
“I’ll let you know what I’m doing—you know—when I find out.” I crack a smile as I reach for her.
We hug each other all the time, every time we see one another, but this time feels different. We hold just as tight, like a cocoon woven around all the history and the memories that have kept us together so long. We sear each other into our collective consciousness in a moment that reminds us why we’ve stuck together.
When Barrett lets go, she turns to Colson, her jaw tight and her eyes ablaze, “I know Brett trusts you, and she has more sense than either of us,” she points her finger up at him, her voice raspy and threatening, “but I swear to God, Colson—" she can’t get the rest of the words out before her chin begins to tremble.
Colson gently takes her by the wrist and wraps his other arm around her neck. She lets him pull her to his chest, gripping his shoulder as he presses his mouth to her ear. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but eventually Barrett starts nodding and takes a deep breath. When she pulls away, her eyes are wet and her cheeks flushed, but she looks calmer.
I tap the edge of Barrett’s door as soon as she climbs back into the driver’s seat, “Text me when you get home and let me know everything’s OK.”
“Don’t worry, I have a plan,” she says as she fastens her seatbelt, “I asked Clay to come stay for a couple of days. When I told him why, he got really excited and now I think he’s bringing Dalton, too,” she waggles her eyebrows at the last part.
I glance away with a grin. I can just imagine Barrett’s brother and his best friend posting up at her house; two linemen straight out of the holler, rolling in to clean out her fridge and look for a fight. At least she’s guaranteed to be safe with them.
“OK, before I leave, be straight with me,” Barrett slides her sunglasses up her nose, “was Colson ever serviced by—” she glances over my shoulder at Colson leaning against his STI, “Roto Rooter?”
My soul nearly leaves my body, “No,” I creak out through uncontrollable laughter, “no, he wasn’t.”
And I continue laughing as the Jeep’s taillights shrink in the distance and they disappear around the edge of the pines. I should’ve known Barrett wouldn’t have left here any other way.
Colson reaches into his backseat for his backpack, “What’s so funny?”
“You’d be mortified,” I reply, trying to compose myself. Changing the subject, I nod to the pole building behind the house, “Is your baby in there?” I ask, referring to his Bronco.
“Of course,” he shoots me a knowing look before lifting my duffel bag off my shoulder and taking it from me. “Pony!” he calls to the German shepherd and nods to the house.
Pony runs up the path, leaps up the stairs, and waits for us on the porch. Much lighter, I follow Colson up the dusty walk. The house looks old, like it’s stood here for the better part of a century, nothing like the Gothic waterfront estate he used to live in. He digs into his pocket for his keys, the black German shepherd waiting patiently behind me while he does so.
“You still haven’t said how you came to live right behind Bowen.”
“This house belongs to the family of a girl I know from high school. Her dad grew up here, but nobody’s lived here for years,” Colson opens the door and motions inside, “so, I told him if he let me live here, I’d start fixing it up.”
When I step through the door, it’s like walking into two separate houses. Light from the sliding glass door on the back wall floods into the great room, illuminating the entire first floor. The kitchen looks brand-new, with fresh white cabinets, new black appliances, and stainless-steel countertops, a stark contrast to the living room that still has maroon shag carpet and walls peppered with patches of spackle.
I gaze around the room, “So, you pay rent in renovations?”
“Most of it’s cosmetic, so it’s really not that complicated,” he steps over the threshold and nods for the German shepherd to come in before swinging the door shut and locking it behind him.
Colson leads me up the staircase where smooth, clean hardwood sprouts from the ancient, worn-down carpet. The walls in the hallway still need painted, but the upstairs is otherwise finished, with crisp white baseboards, refinished oak floors, and paint the color of storm clouds in the room where he sets down my bag before we return to the stairs.
“That’s…really nice of you.”
“It’s more than a fair trade,” he shrugs.
But I know the rent doesn’t matter to Colson. There’s still the unspoken reason—the one where Colson chose to live on this property because it’s the closest that he can get to the house where I lived with his sister’s murderer.
●●●
In some surreal twist of fate, I’m finally able to relax enough to space out at the kitchen table. I never thought I’d find myself back in a house with Colson, much less entering one willingly—out of necessity.
I don’t think too much about it at first, because if I don’t laugh about it, I’ll just start crying. The infamous German shepherd named after Ponyboy Curtis lays next to the sliding glass door behind me, staring out the window like a statue, scanning the trees for movement—animal or otherwise. Maybe Dallas was onto something when she named him. He’s a formidable dog with a dark and tough exterior, but all he wants is a good ear scratch, at least from me.
When Colson comes back downstairs, he’s changed out of his standard black pants, black shirt, and black boots into grey joggers and a black sleeveless undershirt. He moves through the kitchen, grabbing items from the refrigerator, dishes from the cabinet, not ignoring me, but just embracing the silence. I watch with odd satisfaction as he begins combining ingredients in a glass bowl. Egg yolks, olive oil…then he pulls a large knife out of the block on the counter and starts chopping anchovies. My mouth begins to water. Is this what he does when he’s by himself—makes Caesar dressing from scratch? That is, when he’s not hovering in my office or following me.
Jesus, he was out here all along…
When Colson turns to slide the bowl back into the refrigerator, I see that the constellations tattooed on his arm don’t end at his bicep. They extend over his shoulder and disappear beneath his shirt across his back and chest. The sky is big, but so is he. Maybe he’s not finished yet.
He exchanges the bowl for a rectangular glass container and strolls over to the sliding glass door. When he makes a clicking noise with his tongue, Pony immediately jumps up and rushes out ahead of him, disappearing somewhere off the deck. I watch Colson over my shoulder as he plucks four chicken breasts out of the marinade and tosses them onto the grill with a hiss.
As soon as the breeze rushes through the trees, stark green against the crisp blue sky, it catches the smoke and carries it through the open door. And once it hits my nose, everything suddenly feels familiar, smells familiar, and looks familiar.
I’m back in the house where I grew up. My dad is grilling chicken, just like this, and my mom is tossing vegetables in a bowl. Jo and I are somewhere outside running through grass, falling from tree branches, and watching the boats out on the water. Everyone is barefoot because you don’t wear shoes in the summer. The weathered deck, the kitchen tile, the oak tabletop, and the way the sun cuts through the glass and showers the living room in golden light—it feels like…
Home.
It still feels that way when Colson sets down the biggest plate of chicken Caesar salad I’ve ever seen in my life. The feeling lingers for a little while longer as I skewer each piece of chicken and lettuce and Parmesan, cramming as much of it onto my fork as will fit and shoveling it into my mouth. I haven’t eaten anything in two days other than a bowl of cereal at Barrett’s house when I finally started tweaking out from the near constant flow of caffeine I was mainlining. It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted, and I eat every single bite.
As soon as my plate is clean, the sun dips behind the trees, casting the kitchen into shadow. Pony stands and lumbers out the open door. I watch him trot straight out to the edge of the yard, make a sharp left, and start following the tree line.
“Where’s he going?” I ask Colson.
“He walks the perimeter every couple of hours.”
“Did you train him to do that?”
“No,” he shakes his head and proceeds to gulp down half his water bottle, “he’s always done it on his own, no matter where we live. He needs a job or he gets neurotic.”
Maybe Pony and I have a lot in common. I need something to do, something to focus on, or else I go insane, too. Except, lately, it doesn’t matter what I’m focusing on, I’m resigned to a fate of high anxiety.
