Heart So Hollow (Dire Wolves Book 1), page 82
I don’t.
“The bitch is dead,” I snap, “what did she say?”
“Yeah…” Moreau pauses, picking up on my lack of concern for Hannah’s moronic angst, “so, in addition to the guilt about Evie, Hannah felt some sort of responsibility for Emily’s disappearance, too. She admitted to being the last one to see Emily before she disappeared, but her involvement is unclear beyond that. However…” Moreau takes a long breath like she’s gearing up to drop a bomb, “Hannah admitted to helping Bowen rebury Emily’s decomposing body after his dog dug it up.” She speaks slowly, as if she’s reading from a paper and may or may not believe what she’s saying, “Emily disappeared right before Christmas, so if Hannah’s story holds any weight, the ground was probably too cold to dig very deep. In the spring, she said there was some incident with the dog and Bowen asked—sorry, told her—to help him re-dispose of Emily’s body.”
Incident with the dog and…an arm? Brett said something about a dog and an arm when she was hyperventilating in my car after she ran from his house...
I long blink, letting her words sink in. My eyes fall to Pony, laying dutifully at my side, his tongue hanging out of his mouth as he pants without a care in the world.
“So, Emily is dead…” As much as I don’t want to believe it, I knew that was probably the case.
After this long I didn’t think it would end well, but there was always some shred of hope, like it wouldn’t turn out like this.
“In Hannah’s words,” Moreau explains, “Bowen made a habit of telling the story periodically, but implied that the dog got ahold of a dead animal in the woods and not the shallow grave of his ex-girlfriend. He’d tell the story in front of whoever was around, everyone would laugh, it would get brought up again, rinse and repeat. Like a reminder—a low-key threat. He’s a real piece of work.”
Fucking hell…
“Wow, you don’t say…” I peer through my scope, scanning the tree line, “Well, I’m sure Bowen’s pretty broken up about Hannah,” I mutter sarcastically.
I’m sure there are people who will mourn Hannah Bailey’s death, people who loved her dearly, but I am not one of them. To me, she’s just a whiney, jealous bitch who tries to deliver all the women I love to a murderer. Thank God she never got her hands on Dallas…
“I wouldn’t know,” Moreau sounds unsettled, “which brings me to my next point. No one’s been able to put eyes on him since Sunday. He and his current girlfriend disappeared sometime around then and nobody knows where they went.”
No shit, I chuckle to myself, I watched him and his dupe pack up and ship out a few days ago for a romantic getaway in the mountains.
Working for Sergei has its perks, and they’re usually in the form of state-of-the-art surveillance equipment and weaponry. But he’s also a really nice guy. Once I told him about needing to get Alex and Dallas across state lines, he had no problem with hiring on another security manager and cybersecurity tech. I owe him a lot. He wouldn’t agree, though. He sees this as pure entertainment—beating up a bully in the sandbox. For him, revenge is a way of life.
“Which brings me to my last point. I have some questions for you,” Moreau’s voice hitches mischievously, “because I don’t think you’ve been entirely honest with me.”
“Oh?” I’m glad she can’t see me, otherwise she might see the devious smile oozing across my face.
“Yes, so let’s back up. I have a few names I’d like to get your opinion on—” she pauses for dramatic effect, “Sydney Van Doren, Tyler Wilder, and one…Dallas Berrera.”
My grin gets wider as she says each of their names, “What about them?”
“I know Dallas is your sister,” her words brim with suspicion, “but who are the others to you, Colson?”
“Dangerous women to lock horns with, that’s for sure,” I mutter.
“Have you seen the news in the past 48 hours, about what’s happened in Canaan?” I can sense her desperation, knowing she’s on the cusp of a breakthrough, but the pieces just aren’t there yet. “Have you read the article Sydney wrote? Did you know what she’s been up to?”
I know all about it, but I won’t let Moreau know any of that. Instead, I just goad her further.
“You know women, they won’t let anything go…”
I can practically hear her roll her eyes over the speaker. “Fine, what about Dallas, then?” she counters.
“Dallas likes talking, and people like talking to her. They’ll tell her anything,” I say with indifference. “I mean, you’ve seen her on Twitch, they love her…” If Moreau could reach through the phone, she’d probably smack me.
I’d wanted to wring Dallas’s neck when she told me what she’d been doing, and for how long. But how could I stop her? She has just as much of a stake in this as me. In a way, she was the one who brought me back. And, ultimately, she’s the one who brought us all back together and led us to this moment right here.
“And Tyler, well, don’t get me started on Tyler…” Moreau sounds a little more than annoyed.
“What about Tyler?” I ask with amusement.
“Look,” Moreau says sharply, “I don’t know what her story is…but I’m going to find out.”
Now I’m beaming, “Good luck with that,” I snicker.
“Colson, how do you…” she trails off for a few moments, still trying to make it make sense, “how do you know this many people associated with the Garrisons?”
“Come on, Tammy, we’re from a small town,” I brush her off, “you know how it is, everybody knows everybody else…everybody’s always up in each other’s business…secrets don’t stay secrets forever.”
“It just seems really…coincidental…” she’s not buying it, “some might say, convenient?”
“I got a shotgun, a rifle, and a four-wheel drive…” I give her my best Hank Jr.
“Colson…” she says in a warning tone.
“And a country boy can survive…” I croon into the speaker.
“Colson.” She’s going to fucking strangle me if we ever meet in person.
“Listen, all that matters is whether everything is admissible in a court of law,” I reply, not giving up anything else. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, my dog and I are in the middle of tracking a large predator that’s been sleazing around my property.”
Moreau’s had enough of my bullshit, so she decides to leave it alone for now because she also knows she shouldn’t bite the hand that feeds her. Or in this case, delivers her a dump truck worth of evidence with a big bow on top.
“Wait,” she gives an exasperated sigh, “all this to say that there’s now a warrant out for Bowen’s arrest. We’ve already contacted Gunnison, but you should be careful and stay vigilant until we locate him.”
“Of course,” I assure her, “I’ll let Brett know.”
Once all of this is over…
What I won’t tell Moreau is that I’ve had eyes on Bowen for nearly two years. I never stopped. The feeds inside his house eventually died, their batteries drained. The cameras are too small to matter, so they’ll remain in place as long as the house still stands. But I—or my associates—have maintained the exterior cameras. I know when Bowen comes and goes, I know when other people come and go, and I make sure to know who those other people are.
Enter Valerie Marston—the “current girlfriend.”
I recognized her immediately, in my home, talking to my girl like she’s a perfect stranger, as if she wasn’t following Bowen’s orders to come here, find Brett, and lead him right to her. But when she set foot in my house, she didn’t know that I’d been acquainted with her since Bowen brought her home with him a few months ago. Since then, she’s made a pretty pet for him and I’ve watched their relationship blossom from 1,400 miles away.
“Oh,” Moreau pipes up, “and you also might be interested in knowing they took cadaver dogs out to Bowen’s property.”
“And?”
“No hits,” she replies. It stings, but I’m not surprised. “However, the dogs got really excited about the concrete slab in Jay and Hildy Rhinehardt’s barn…”
I laugh to myself, “I would’ve loved to see Hildy’s face when they started drilling into her floor.”
“The hits just keep coming, Colson,” Moreau doesn’t miss a beat, “Hildy Rhinehardt disappeared sometime last night after their property was searched.”
“Hell, I’d get out of Dodge, too, if I were her,” I snort, “I don’t suppose her husband’s out looking for her…”
She ignores my snipe at Jay and how the universe just delivered him the ultimate Fatality move, “I suppose not,” she replies, knowing she won’t gain any sympathy from me, “but we were able to get another warrant and search Jay and Hildy’s house this morning.”
“Find anything interesting?” I ask, lifting my rifle and taking another look through the scope.
“Maybe. Remember that box that Brett said she found in Bowen’s ceiling?”
●●●
It’s bittersweet when secrets come out into the open and everyone realizes the truth you’ve known for years. Nothing compares to that moment of validation, but the downside is that you have to relive the agony all over again just so everyone else can process it for the first time. I wish I could call Brett and tell her everything Moreau just told me, but I’m not allowed. I’m busy hunting for polar bears.
A few hours later, the feed on the front of the house detects motion. When I look, a familiar white Tahoe comes rolling up the drive and Valerie gets out carrying a bag. I watch her on the front porch, glancing around as she waits for Brett to answer. It’s clear that she’s expected, so I keep an eye on the interior feed as they mill around and eventually sit down in the living room.
No more than a half hour later, Valerie rises from the sofa. But something is…wrong. Brett’s not smiling anymore, her soft features replaced with a scornful look as she snarls something at Valerie. Not a minute later, Valerie is out the front door, making a beeline for the Tahoe. She practically peels out of the driveway, speeding toward the road, with Brett marching down the long driveway after her.
Where the hell are you going?
I pull up each feed along the driveway as she goes, making sure she’s the only one on that driveway. I see her stop at the road, the Tahoe long gone, and linger there for a minute or so.
A crack of thunder rumbles over the mountains as dark clouds begin to roll in. Just what I need. Cursing under my breath, I pull up a couple of the feeds closer to the house. With Brett at the end of the driveway, I need to find Bowen.
And I do find him, emerging from the south edge of the property and heading for the house. My position makes it impossible to see much, so I scan through the feeds for a better view and begin heading south along the slope. I watch Bowen head toward the house when, all of a sudden, the image jostles and a moment later, the screen goes white. I’m blind, and I don’t know which direction he went.
Brett’s outside. Did she lock the house when she left?
Then I see something dart in and out of the frame of the feed that went white. I bring my phone closer and wait for it to appear again.
A black blob fills the screen and then gets smaller. It bobs in and out a few times before I realize it’s a deer—a giant buck with a massive rack, and he’s nosing at the camera on the ground. It’s the same buck I caught on the trail cams who’s been tearing down our fences and destroying the fruit trees. I’d recognize him anywhere.
King of the fucking forest…
I cock my head, glowering at the screen as that son of a bitch nibbles at the camera and pokes at it with his snout. That asshole finally shows up and what does he do? He tears my goddamn camera off the tree. I’m surprised he hasn’t put his hoof through the screen as a final fuck you. And of all the cameras, this camera.
A deep growl builds in the pit of my stomach and then bursts up through my chest, “Goddamnit!” I drop my rifle and take off down the slope toward the tree line.
But then I stop, digging my heels into the pine needles and dirt.
Chess, not checkers…don’t let your emotions overwhelm your intelligence…
I stand there for a few moments, motionless while a firestorm raging behind my eyes. Against every fiber of my being, I reluctantly spin around with a growl and scramble back up the slope. When I get to the top of the hill, I take off in a sprint, running deeper into the forest.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE
Brett
Present
It seems like a dream, the one I have over and over, but this time I know I’m awake, standing in my bedroom with my arms out in front of me, aiming a gun at the doorway.
He’s standing in front of me, and he’s real. Black t-shirt, black boots, black camo pants…
Seeing isn’t always believing, but smelling his cigarettes is, and feeling the heat of his stifling presence is. Now he’s standing on my side of the glass, leaning motionless against the doorframe, and his deep brown eyes are looking at me like he’s starving.
Finally, Bowen rakes his black hair away from his eyes, “Brett Sorensen, whose pen is mightier than the sword…I didn’t mean to scare you,” he nods behind him to the hallway with that same wide, dimpled Cheshire Cat smile I used to love, “I was just cleaning out your closet.”
My eyes dart over his shoulder to the dim hallway where the door of the linen closet is hanging open.
I forgot the closets, like I forgot the front door…
But there’s no time for admonishments. Adapt.
“Baby girl,” Bowen chuckles, “your self-awareness is for shit.”
Stop calling me that. And no, it’s not.
I adjust my stance, my arms still locked in front of me, “Are you here to kill me?” I ask him.
He shifts his gaze from me to my Glock, pointed straight at him, “Seems you’ve graduated from pens to something more useful. You’re not afraid of guns anymore?”
He didn’t say no…
“Why are you here?” I demand, focusing on keeping my muscles tense but calm.
“I want to take you on a hike. You used to love that.” The way he says it is unsettling, like he’s reminiscing, but not about me.
Pivot.
“You gave me my book back,” I glance at the wall, the flash drive still plugged into my computer in the office, “I thought it was gone forever.”
He’s had it all this time, and somehow that’s worse than if he just clicked Delete.
“Nothing’s ever gone forever,” Bowen gives a slight shake of his head, looking down as he picks at a callous on his palm, “I’d have let you keep it if I knew you were just going to write a bunch of lies about me instead.”
Yeah, well, that’s a bummer isn’t it…
“They’re not lies,” I state bluntly.
Bowen looks up, meeting my eyes, “It’s been a year, why hasn’t he married you?” He squints, disguising his jab as curiosity, “What’s wrong with you?”
It’s no one else’s concern, especially not his.
“You don’t have to marry someone to prove that you love them,” I focus on my periphery as I speak, “just like you don’t have to love someone to marry them.” If Bowen’s still talking, it means I still have time.
“It’s because of me, isn’t it?” Bowen deflects, “He has you now, but every time he touches you, he knows what I’ve done to you…what you like me to do to you…just like the last object of his affection.” His smug grin turns my stomach.
More projection, more games…
“Col’s such a fucking baby,” he scoffs, “I took away his toy back in high school and now he’s bitching and moaning because he couldn’t hang on to his next one. And I didn’t even have to look for you, you came right to me. The first time I saw you, every moment after that,” his face softens and he shakes his head, “you were so right. And no one else mattered, just you and me…” He trails off for a few moments, a faraway look in his eye, before a smile seeps across his face, “Finder’s keepers.”
I clench my jaw, trying to ignore his sinister tone, “I was there, you know, in our bedroom. You can’t act like—”
“Lying by omission is still lying, Brett,” Bowen barks, cutting me off. It gives me a start, but I manage to keep my hands steady. “All I did in that room was remind you of what would happen if you kept fucking around and playing with fire.”
I remain silent as he oscillates between desire and seething hatred. He didn’t come here for catharsis or closure—at least the kind that I’m willing to give him.
“You don’t get to talk to me about lying, by omission or otherwise,” I glare at him through the rear sight aperture, “Yeah, I cheated on you, with the man whose sister you murdered. And I’m fine with it.”
Bowen stretches both arms above his head and hooks his fingers over the edge of the door frame, making himself look even bigger than he already is—the same thing animals do when they feel threatened. I don’t have to see the holster tucked in the back of his jeans to know he’s carrying. He’s always carrying.
His arms flex and my eye catches something on the inside of his left arm; a tattoo that wasn’t there a year ago. The thick black curves of the body stand out against the delicate grey shading of the wings, making it look almost whimsical.
A honeybee…
My pulse quickens and I gently angle my body as I prepare to move.
“I’m not usually a forgiving person, Brett,” Bowen’s eyes move down to my abdomen and linger there for longer than necessary. Eventually, he looks back up at me, filled with indignation, “But I can overlook mistakes—lapses in judgement—when I want to.” He pauses, and after a minute, his voice softens again. “I bet she’ll look like you. What’s her name?”
My skin crawls. How the hell does he know that my baby is a she?
Oh yeah, Valerie…
Regardless, he needs to stop talking about my daughter and implying that she’s anything close to a mistake. For a split-second, I consider lying, making up a different name just to move on. But then I remember that room, and then the closet, the box, and everything inside…
