Heart So Hollow (Dire Wolves Book 1), page 81
They say patience is a virtue, but I doubt many people would look at me, watching and lying in wait under the cover of darkness, and consider me virtuous. Maybe if they knew why, they might change their minds.
●●●
The earth always balances itself out. It never forgives, it never forgets, and it has no respect for the wanton destruction inflicted by humans. And neither do I.
Now, I sit far back behind the tree line, watching Brett inside our house through the scope on my rifle and the camera feed on my phone. I’ve been up here for three days, watching her come and go, sit in her office and work, talk on the phone, and live her life. Alex is long gone back down the mountain after mounting the rest of the cameras and making sure I’m otherwise invisible.
It’s almost like it was when I came back to the lower 48 and found her again, except now it’s my house she lives in, my bed she sleeps in, and—just like I said—my baby that grows in her belly. It nearly killed me to leave her this time because I told her I never would again.
But my girl is fucking stubborn as hell. And she knows I love a good hunt.
Brett’s blind now, thanks to Bowen cutting the wire out by the road. But I can still see what’s going on inside the house from the cameras placed throughout the inside and the ones affixed to trees around the property. They’re not on the same connection as the original ones.
But even with the cameras, I couldn’t get a shot off at the front door, just like I couldn’t get a shot off at the bedroom. Bowen’s smart, whether he knows it or not, putting himself right in front of Brett each time he approaches the house. You don’t fire on a target with your woman standing right on the other side of it.
The first time, he only walked into the grove of pines right outside the kitchen before backing off and retreating into the forest. The second time, at night, I stood no more than 50 yards from him in the front yard, watching him creep up the front steps. I waited with him in my sights at the front door, for her to put Sodapop outside because that’s what she does every night. Bowen stood, completely still, holding the doorknob for over 30 minutes as he waited to hear the deadbolt unlock. But it never did.
I waited for the door to move, whether it was from her or him, so I could take my shot and end his pathetic life. But last night, it was just not meant to be. Instead, he slunk back into the trees and chain-smoked the rest of the night. That’s how I usually know he’s nearby, from the sickly stench of Marlboro Lights somewhere in the vicinity.
There’s only room for one irreverent asshole on this mountain.
But this morning is much more exciting. I never need an alarm when I’m sleeping in the woods. The forest wakes you up along with everything else as soon as the sun begins to rise. I stroll back down the mountain with Bowen, only he doesn’t know it since he’s coming from the south and I’m coming from the west. But we arrive at the tree line at about the same time.
He crosses the yard like he lives here and I watch him post up in front of the sliding glass door outside our bedroom, playing statue for two fucking hours. He watches Brett sleep, much like I do from the feed on my phone, while I keep my sights on him.
At one point, she starts jerking around in the bed like she’s having a nightmare and I hope to God she doesn’t jump up and start trying to smash her way out of the room again. She hasn’t had any nightmares for a while, so it would be extremely ill-timed for her brain to freak out now…
Fortunately, Brett calms down and stays asleep for another 10 minutes or so. As soon as she stirs and I see her start to get out of bed, I prepare for a shit show. But, to my utter shock, I don’t hear any screams, shots, or any other noise, for that matter. There’s just silence.
Bowen doesn’t move, still motionless in front of the dark glass. My finger tenses on the trigger when he reaches for the door handle and tries to open it without success. Brett’s going to ream me out for that one. She hates sliding glass doors—because of me—and I’ve been telling her I’ll turn that one into a big picture window instead. But before I could, things…got busy.
I mutter more than a few curses when I see the faint outline of Brett’s body appear in the glass. She stands just on the other side, mere inches from him, staring in silence.
I know what she’s doing.
I could’ve just put a bullet through his head while he skulked around the mountain for the past two days or when he walked through the yard in broad daylight, but that’s not part of the plan. As much as I fucking hate it, I have to wait.
Because there can’t be any shadow of a doubt what he’s here for.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
Brett
Present
During the 1918 flu pandemic, Gunnison made it through relatively unscathed because they implemented draconian measures to keep their people safe. No one in, no one out. And if you left, you couldn’t come back.
The people of Gunnison are no stranger to being vigilant and suspicious of intruders. I’m convinced that the only reason they accepted me is because of Colson and the fact that his father grew up here. It’s why, when Colson came to Toronto for the final time and brought me here, stepping onto this property felt like I was coming home. And when I went to town with him the next day, people already knew me because they knew him. Maybe it’s because this is where I belong.
And that’s the bottom line; I belong here. Bowen does not.
As soon as Valerie’s white Tahoe—excuse me, my white Tahoe—disappears around the bend, I know I’ll never see her again. Her job here is done. It was odd sitting in the passenger seat, watching someone else drive a vehicle specifically purchased for me. It even had the scratch on the dashboard from when I moved in with Bowen.
I wonder why he kept it. It would’ve been easy enough to sell. It was practically brand-new.
Keeping my head on a swivel, I stalk back up the driveway, gravel crunching under my black Vans.
It’s fortunate that I’m angry instead of afraid. It’s fortunate that I did the work, even when I didn’t want to, and spent all this time getting angry instead of staying scared. Because if I hadn’t, I would break down right there on the front porch, paralyzed with fear when I see the paper on my door, the Buck knife stabbed through it like a challenge—a dare.
You’ve been a bad bad girl Honeybee
I jerk the Buck knife from the door; Bowen’s Buck knife, with its classic dark brown handle and gold hilt and pommel. Then I glare at the heavy oak door, the wood marred with a one-inch cut stabbed into it.
Thanks a lot, fucker.
As soon as I see his note, I realize it’s a pronouncement, a statement of intent, a declaration of war.
Honeybee…
To me, it’s a thousand moments and a thousand memories in my cup that runs over. But to Bowen, it’s a curse, a blasphemous utterance insulting every fiber of his being. As it should. Clenching my fist, I crumple the paper in my fingers and throw open the door, immediately slamming it behind me and flipping the deadbolt. Then I stare at the knob with a sinking realization.
Shit. I didn’t lock the door when I chased his scout off my property.
I left my own house completely open, vulnerable, unprotected. Even though I know it’s still there, I feel for my Glock behind my back and slowly pull it from its holster. Chambering a round, I angle it down in front of me and start moving through the first floor, starting with the kitchen.
The plastic bag full of baby clothes still sits on the island, mocking me. It would’ve been a nice touch, if I didn’t immediately recognize the scent of the fabric deodorizer used by the second-hand children’s clothing store in town and the one tag from said store that she forgot to remove from a yellow onesie with ducks all over it.
Clear.
A steady rumble of thunder vibrates the window sills as I make my way into the living room. It’s getting darker as the clouds roll in over the mountains. I work quickly, scampering up the stairs and making my way into each of the three bedrooms and two bathrooms along the hallway. The corridor is open with a view over the railing down into the living room, which lets me detect any movement below.
Clear.
I return downstairs and head back to the Master bedroom. The bed is made, the white quilted bedspread smooth and undisturbed just like the vase on the dresser with its branches of eucalyptus, not a leaf out of place. My head is on a swivel as I cross the bedroom, stepping into the bathroom and spinning around. The marble shower is empty, the wavy blocks of glass along the wall consumed by the stormy, grey shadow outside. The only movement behind them is the familiar sway of branches from the birch just off the deck.
Clear.
I stop and listen. A deep rumble of thunder groans above and I clench my jaw in annoyance as it breaks my concentration. Ignoring the interruption, I creep toward the closet door at the other end of the bathroom, my gun raised slightly higher. I grab the knob and slowly twist before throwing the door open, prepared to fire into the walk-in closet.
But it’s empty. The drawers are closed and the clothes hang perfectly still. Slowly, I shut the door and return to the bedroom. I walk gingerly across the carpet toward the sliding glass door, peering outside across the lawn. The wind’s picked up, and birds dart in and out of the trees seeking shelter, but the yard is otherwise deserted. The clouds are dark and ominous, but it’s not raining. This happens a lot on the mountain—thunder without rain—but hopefully it’ll stop soon. Now’s not the time for superfluous noise.
The glass door is shut, its lock still engaged just as it should be. I flip the lock up and down a few times, then look up at the ceiling fan, its white blades perfectly still. And that’s when I notice it.
A faint sting of cigarette smoke hits my nostrils.
My gaze detection triggers and, suddenly, the monster is on the wrong side of the glass again.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
Colson
Present
I should go down there right now. One shot. Done.
But then I see Wells Rhinehardt right before he slammed me down onto a desk and Tate Garrison’s stupid fucking face and the look he gave me when I was just a high schooler who pulled my sister’s rotting corpse out of a drain pipe in the forest. My sister, who his grandson murdered. He was promising to make my life hell and destroy my family even further. Then again, Bowen was just a high schooler, too, and look at all the damage he managed to inflict in such a short time.
No, I relax my finger on the trigger, but only slightly. If that sliding glass door opened, then all the training that I got up in the Arctic would instantly pay off. But it doesn’t. The lock holds and Bowen remains on the right side of the glass.
I also keep my promises. And firing off a shot just because I’m impatient isn’t worth it. I’ve waited this long, what’s a day or two longer?
A lot. Because I’ve put up with enough of this bullshit, and now I just want to live in my house, fuck my woman, give her everything she wants, raise my children, and live happily ever after while my sister and one of my best friends live in the next valley over.
But that’s alright, I can wait. Because I’m a patient man, after all.
Through my scope, I suddenly see something light appear on the inside of the glass, then I realize it’s Brett’s palm pressed against the window. A few seconds later, Bowen lifts his hand and presses it against the glass in the same spot.
What the hell is she doing?
Both of them stay like that for only a few seconds, but it seems like an hour. Finally, Bowen lowers his arm and quickly steps away from the window, making his way across the deck and back down to the yard. When I’m confident he’s headed back into the woods, I peer through my scope again at the window, finally able to catch an unobstructed view of Brett.
She’s staring at the window, her hand still pressed against the glass. Every few seconds, her eyes dart away and then return to the window. Then it dawns on me. Even now, she’s not sure she’s really seeing him or seeing his ghost that’s lived in her head for the past year. She still can’t decide whether he’s that brazen.
But he is.
I lower my rifle, still leaning against the trunk of the pine, and shift my gaze to Bowen disappearing into the trees on the south side of the property. I glance down at Pony, still posted up at my heel. His brown dog eyes track Bowen until he’s gone, and then he looks up at me. I give him a scratch on the side of his face and push off the tree.
I was planning on shutting him up in the cow barn further back in the forest, but when it came down to it, I knew I couldn’t do that. Ideally, he’d still be at the house with Brett, but Bowen doesn’t have any qualms about killing someone else’s dog. Especially mine. No, it’s better that he’s out here with me, another pair of eyes and a nose that works better than mine.
The rest of the morning is uneventful. Bowen’s going to give Brett a few hours to doubt herself some more and then I’m sure he’ll make another appearance. It’s what he loves to do. It’s what gets his dick hard. But this time, Brett knows it’s him.
I sink down onto the bed of pine needles, my back against a ponderosa, and pull out my phone to monitor the camera feeds. Bowen’s staying out on the southern edge of the property at the bottom of the slope whereas I’m on the west side where the forest begins climbing the mountain in a series of plateaus.
I’ve watched him from ridgetops no more than 30 yards away at some points. When I’m not within eyeshot, I have cameras throughout the forest, hundreds of them strategically placed by Alex, Sergei, and I.
As I’m watching him slink back off into the brush, I get a call. I’m pleasantly surprised—it’s Agent Tammy Moreau. I’ve spoken to her far more often than any other member of law enforcement, so she’s grown on me. I don’t like law enforcement in general, for obvious reasons. I prefer the more clandestine operations—people who lack bureaucracy and conventional politics in favor of getting shit done. But she seems like someone with integrity and character. She seems invested, whether it’s because she cares or is trying to make a name for herself makes no difference.
“He-llo?” I sing into the phone.
“Colson!” she chimes, “Is it a good time?”
I plant the butt of my gun on the dirt next to me, “As good a time as any.”
“Good, because I need to talk to you about some things right away. I’ve already spoken to your parents, but there have been a few developments. First of all, Callen Fisher lied.”
“Who the hell is Callen Fisher?” I ask while I scan the trees around me, making sure to stay abreast of my surroundings.
“Bowen’s friend who gave him his alibi the night Evie disappeared. Turns out he couldn’t have been with Bowen during the time he stated because he himself was busy being arrested.”
“For what?”
“Drunk driving in downtown Columbus.”
Moron. At least he made himself useful.
“His parents posted bail,” Moreau continues, “but not until 2:00 the next morning.”
“What does Bowen say about it?”
“Not much. We tried to bring him in for questioning, but the entire family lawyered up. We did, however, bring Hannah Bailey in for questioning, talked to her for about nine hours on Monday and brought her back in Tuesday for a polygraph. She failed miserably. Afterward, she finally started talking and admitted to telling Hildy about Evie’s abortion—”
“Come again?” I cough.
There’s an awkward pause before Moreau continues, “Yeah, so…I’m guessing you weren’t aware. Apparently, Evie confided in Hannah, who then told Hildy, and Hildy ultimately told Bowen about it. Hannah alleges that Hildy did it to get back at Evie for taking Sydney Van Doren’s side over some altercation that occurred in the weeks leading up to her death.”
Oh, shit…
A barrage of images flash through my mind, seemingly unrelated until this moment. Aiden, Sydney, Jay, Hildy…now Hannah, Bowen, and Evie…all people who crossed paths in the wrong place at exactly the wrong time. And how could Evie have known what would happen? How could she have become the biggest casualty in all that?
“Jesus Christ…” it’s all I can say after such a revelation.
But Moreau’s not done, “Did you also realize whose property you were on when you found Evie?”
“No,” I give the trees another scan, “I just knew it wasn’t the park anymore.”
“Turns out it still belongs to the residence of one Captain James Rhinehardt of the Canaan Police Department and his wife, Amber,” she replies with a hint of smugness.
“What?” I knit my brow in confusion, “No one ever said anything about that.”
“Depends who you ask,” she continues, “and where they want their property line to reach depending on the circumstances. It’s all about how you tell the story, isn’t it?”
Officer Jay motherfucking Rhinehardt and his family of goons…
Trespassing, my ass…no wonder the search radius didn’t extend that far. They kept it to public land and Bowen knew Evie would never be found. Except he didn’t anticipate my nightmares and premonitions that I still can’t explain.
“Whether Hannah had an inkling of what would happen between Bowen and Evie that night, I don’t know,” Moreau sighs, “but apparently, she still harbored a lot of guilt about it. Bowen threatened to implicate her as an accomplice if she told anyone Evie met with him.”
What do you know—Hannah has feelings…
“OK,” I’m done talking about Hannah’s too-little-too-late, “so she’ll testify against him?”
“Not exactly.”
“Why not?” I growl through my teeth.
“Because she’s dead.”
I arch my brow and blink a few times. I can’t say I saw that one coming.
“She stopped answering texts and calls, so some friends went to check on her yesterday and discovered she’d died by suicide.”
How convenient...
“Bowen had a real chokehold on her, so to speak,” she continues, “she kept rambling on, going back and forth about Bowen, hating him one minute and then sounding heartbroken the next. He did a real number on her,” Moreau pauses, “I almost felt sorry for her.”
