CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Hollow Watcher
One Year Ago
My grandmother used to love watching that old TV show, Thriller . The one where Boris Karloff hosts stories about unsuspecting people befallen by supernatural phenomena or insidious conspirators getting their comeuppance. She ate that shit up, and so did I. Maybe that’s where I learned the meaning of right and wrong—how to dole out justice and retribution.
My favorite one is about a legendary scarecrow in a small town that gets revenge on those who don’t behave. The townspeople called him the Hollow Watcher.
And maybe that’s what I am, too.
I watch Brett because there’s a gaping hole inside me that only she can fill.
Like clockwork, her blue Impreza pulls into the northeast entrance of Black Ridge at 4:26. She parks in the first space, closest to an oak that always shades the first three spaces by the time she arrives. Today’s a sunny day, which means she’ll strap her bike to the rack on the hatch of the Impreza and take it to work with her. She changes clothes at the end of the day and pulls out of the parking lot by 4:13. She does this every single day as long as it’s not raining.
She likes routine, and she’s nothing if not predictable.
I watch her unlock the straps on the rack with a small key on her pink carabiner and lift her neon yellow bike off the hatch. She taps the kickstand with her pink and grey Nikes and balances the bike on the asphalt while she pulls her long, curly hair back at the base of her skull.
Her hair.. .
It’s red. It’s really light, so some people call it strawberry blonde, but it’s fucking red . That’s one of the first things that made me stop dead in my tracks the first time I saw her. She walked into my line of sight and I decided there was no way she’d ever leave it. I swear, it was a goddamn sign.
She grabs her pink and orange helmet from the backseat and adjusts the straps under her chin before straddling her bike. She stands for a moment, surveying the path leading down the hill to the woods.
I can’t help but smile as I watch her from the far side of the lot, unassuming and concealed in plain sight. Just like I was the first time I laid eyes on her.
She won’t notice me until later—like before.
She won’t recognize my vehicle—right now, anyway—nor the fact that I’ve been sitting in the driver’s seat, motionless, waiting for her to appear.
I tilt my head and gaze at the back of her neck, her shoulder blades peeking out of her black tank top. It outlines the curve of her waist, ending at her hips covered by smooth, sage green leggings. Her delts and traps ripple beneath her skin as she leans forward to grip the handlebars. She’s muscular and curvy in all the right places, not some frail waif who sits on the sidelines drinking White Claws and eating amphetamines.
She looks the same as she did the first time I saw her, maybe even more beautiful.
She propels herself across the asphalt to the head of the bike path and, a few moments later, she disappears over the hill toward the woods ahead.
I won’t follow her right now. I won’t pursue her into the trees to lie in wait like some predator. There’s no need for that kind of indecency. I’d never need to do that, anyway.
I’m not some fucking loser, after all.
I don’t have to worry. She’ll come to me, just like before. It happened once, and it’ll happen again. I’ll pique her interest, she’ll hesitate, size me up, and it’ll just be a matter of time. Maybe I’ll get her going and then leave her hanging, like before. But, after that, she won’t stand a chance.
It’s 4:32. I have about 35 minutes before she emerges from the woods and coasts back into the parking lot. It might be a couple minutes longer if she stops to take a photo of a toad or a deer like last time. But I like that about her, she loves the little things and she’d be more than happy with a simple life. She just wants to write her books and be happy.
Hell, if she wants toads and deer, I’ll build her a house in the middle of nowhere on a mountaintop. Lucky for her, I can give her all that and so much more if she wants it.
Part of me is annoyed, impatient that I’m still sitting here, watching her from afar, when I could already be out there with her, enmeshing myself in her life. She could already be walking side by side with me, offering up every shred of information about herself, brushing her arm against mine, hoping I’ll reach over and take her hand. Just like last time .
But there’s a process. I’m much smarter now, and much more patient.
Not like before.
This time, my girl won’t try to leave.
And, this time, no one will get hurt.