CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Brett
One Year Ago
He’s following me again.
But we’re not in college and we’re not in Dr. Selter’s Popular Fiction class anymore. Now, we’re sitting in Conference Room B, listening to Dave detail upcoming internal inspections and Eric recall the excitement of a potential threat that turned out to be a shed hunter who got too close to the perimeter fence. And wherever I sit, Colson is sitting right next to me.
Except now I don’t mind.
I should mind, but I’ve gotten a taste of normalcy and it’s too much to ignore. There’s nothing that I want more than to go back and not be afraid. Maybe this is my new coping mechanism—believing things can be what they once were. Maybe this will also be my downfall—dying on a hill of avoidance and denial.
It’s always the same. No matter what time of day it is, Colson brings a Twix candy bar and right after he opens it, he hands half of it to me and eats the other. Sometimes, I take my pack of cinnamon gum out of my pocket and hold it out to him. He always takes one. I still don’t know exactly what to think about him, but his presence is oddly comforting. And this ritual we’ve developed is oddly comforting.
It’s like everything is back to…normal.
He stops at my door during his rounds, I tell him about bike trails, and he tells me about new music he finds.
Today is the same in Conference Room B. Colson slides one of the Twix bars in front of me and, out of habit, I reach for it and take a bite off the end. I glance out the window as I chew, making mental notes about my schedule and daydreaming about which playlist I’ll put on for my bike ride today. Except when I refocus and let my eyes wander back across the table, my jaw tenses and I stop mid-chew.
Alex is leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, staring directly at me from across the table. He has the smoothest skin I’ve ever seen, which allows me to see each and every miniscule twitch of his facial muscles while he silently judges me. My stomach drops as he glances between me and Colson, probably working it out in his head. Finally, the corner of his mouth curls into a smirk and he turns his attention back to Dave at the front of the room.
I wonder if Alex is thinking the same thing Colson’s friends thought back in college when he stopped sitting with them and chose to sit next to me instead. I wonder if Colson tells anyone anything about why he does the things he does. Probably not. But whatever Alex thinks, it’s obvious he’s incredibly entertained by it.
I take a deep breath and try to tamp down all the thoughts racing through my mind. When did I become so oblivious? This time last year, I would’ve noticed anyone who might be looking in my direction and immediately found out why. Hypervigilance was my middle name, even though it never resulted in anything more dramatic than scheduling a last-minute meeting. Now, I still feel hypervigilant, except it doesn’t seem to do a damn bit of good. I still feel like eyes are on me, whether I recognize them or not, and it feels like everyone can read my mind while I’m staggering around in the dark.
I avoid making eye contact with anyone else until the meeting is over and I can escape back to my office. But as I’m ascending the stairs, I hear footsteps behind me, slightly out of sync with my own. When I glance over my shoulder, I recognize Nate near the bottom of the staircase.
“Haven’t seen you in a while,” I call back to him, slowing my pace while he catches up.
I used to see him every day, but now I only see him at meetings.
“I know,” he flashes me a smile, “you’ve been hiding out more.”
“A little bit, I guess…”
He’s not wrong. I was hiding for a while, until I decided Colson wasn’t an imminent threat. Before, I avoided the break room because I knew he would be there with Alex and Nate. But, now, I’m never there because Colson started posting up at my office during lunch.
“How are you?” Nate glances down at my hand, “Set a date yet?”
“Yeah, we just did. August 24 th .”
“Long engagements are cool,” Nate nods, “my sister was engaged for two years and still barely got everything done in time.”
“Oh, um—” I bite my lip sheepishly, “I mean August 24 th of this year.”
Nate’s eyes go wide with surprise, “In that case, never mind,” he grins.
“Why wait, right?” I turn the corner onto my hallway and Nate follows, “So, where do they have you now? ”
“On the north side,” Nate motions ahead, “since they finished the renovations.”
“The day you got moved, I yelled hello into the hallway thinking it was you,” I’m finally able to laugh when I recall the memory, “but it was Colson, and he scared the hell out of me.”
“Don’t tell me that,” Nate groans, “now I feel bad. I should’ve warned you.”
I cast him a sideways glance, “You should feel bad.”
“Did you know Colson before he came here?” he asks.
It’s not a strange question. Wolfsson is the kind of place where everybody seems to know everybody else because they were recruited via word of mouth. It’s how Dallas and Colson ended up here...I think.
I give a nod, “I know him from college.”
“How well did you know him?”
I shrug, “I mean, we had a class together.”
That’s as much as I want to elaborate. Things are going well between us and I’d rather not rock the boat. Nate stops at my doorway, but doesn’t follow me in. When I look up from behind my desk, he’s staring across the floor like he’s deep in thought.
“What?” I ask. Nate shakes his head with a smile, but doesn’t say anything. I cast a suspicious glance at him, “Why are you being weird?”
“Not being weird, just…” he hesitates, choosing his next words carefully, “making sure you’re OK. You’re the only one over here, you know.”
I love Nate’s roundabout way of poking around for information, as if he himself hasn’t tried to do the exact same thing he’s implying Colson is doing.
“Because Colson’s batshit?” I ask nonchalantly.
Nate lets out a surprised laugh at my unexpected candor, “Batshit…” he repeats, which finally makes him get to the point, “and he seems real interested in you.”
“Does he?” I feign ignorance, but he catches my subtle smile.
“But, seriously, is he batshit?” There’s a catch in Nate’s voice, like he’s deciding whether I’m joking or not. “Like, for real?”
This is too easy.
I lean onto my elbows and crane my neck to look past Nate’s shoulder into the hallway, “ Fucking. Nuts. ” I murmur with a nod.
This makes Nate laugh, so I hope he decides to drop it.
“I appreciate it, Nate. But when’s the last time anything dangerous happened around here besides the time someone stole Dave’s leftover Chinese and he sent out an email blast threatening to check the cameras?”
Nate nods in admission. Like I said, the only shooting he ever does is at the range to maintain whatever certification he needs to work here. And he must not be too concerned, since he doesn’t even notice Colson approaching until he startles Nate in the doorway.
Some security guard …
The lingering stare Colson gives Nate as he brushes past him isn’t lost on me. Actually, I’m pretty sure he made it obvious on purpose. I track Colson across my office with a half-smile until he pauses at my desk and sets down a white paper coffee cup with a black plastic lid—the type that’s stocked in the break rooms. Then he continues to the corner and plants himself in the chair next to the window.
I know why he’s here. It’s Thursday, so Colson will stay for about half an hour, sometimes longer, until he goes outside to man the front gate for the rest of the afternoon.
He leans back, loops his thumbs through the side straps of his vest, tilts his head, and settles his sights on Nate.
Unbothered.
I look at the coffee cup on my desk and press my lips together, trying to hide the smile creeping across my face, “Well, thanks for letting me know,” I flash my eyes at Nate and give a sideways glance to Colson.
He’s sitting perfectly still, staring daggers at Nate.
“Yeah, uh—” Nate’s watching Colson like he’s waiting for a bomb to go off, “anytime.”
I have no idea what’s going on, but I’d be lying if I said I’m not incredibly amused by how easy it is for Colson to turn overly-flirty Nate into a ball of nerves.
Nate glances at my door and tries to focus on me, “Do you want this open or closed?”
“Closed,” Colson’s deep voice slices through the tension hanging heavy in the room, this time giving me a start.
Nate searches me for confirmation, his expression more serious.
Boys and their fragile egos…
“Closed is fine,” I say gently and then flash him a sweet smile, “Don’t be a stranger.”
But he’s distracted. My eyes are locked on Nate’s, but his dart uncomfortably between me and Colson. Something tells me he won’t heed my invitation, not that I’m sad about it.
Before he pulls the door shut, Nate jerks his head up and his demeanor suddenly changes, “Oh,” he plasters a smile across his face, “and congratulations on setting a date.”
My stomach drops and my neck muscles tense, but I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because the way he says it feels like it was directed at Colson rather than me. Before I can respond, Nate is gone, disappearing out the door and taking all the air in the room with him.
After a few moments of overwhelming silence, I take a breath and cast a suspicious glance over my shoulder at Colson, “What did you do?”
Colson’s face softens, which makes me relax, “What makes you think I did something? ”
I slide the coffee cup toward me and gingerly lift it to my nose, inhaling its sweet aroma, “Nate hasn’t come up here for months and that’s the quickest he’s ever left my office. I usually have to get up and go somewhere for him to leave. You did something, didn’t you?”
“Well, that hardly seems like a fair assumption,” he replies.
I shoot him a side-eye, “He tried to warn me about you.”
Colson reaches back and pulls his phone out of his back pocket, “Did he?”
“Don’t worry, I told him I already know you’re batshit.”
“Aw, thanks, baby,” Colson drawls, “doing my job for me.”
I give a scoff and turn back to my computer with a chuckle, “You’re sick.”
The coffee doesn’t feel too hot, so I carefully bring it to my lips and take a small sip. When I taste it, I turn to Colson with excitement, “Do they have salted caramel lattes in the machine now?”
He looks up from his phone and grins. After hearing me repeatedly complain about the lack of variety in the fancy new coffee machine in the break room, I’m not surprised he showed up with an impromptu latte for me. And it’s good, I can actually taste the sweet and salty notes instead of the vague flavors that all seem to taste the same anyway.
Colson focuses on his phone while I respond to emails, alternating between an inordinate amount of swiping his keyboard and equally long periods of time staring at the screen. A few moments later, my desktop vibrates as a text comes through on my phone.
HILDY (12:18PM): What kind of dress are you looking for? Major sale soon. And what am I supposed to wear? I have less than 2 months!!!!
There’s a link to a bridal gown shop attached to the text. I don’t even know how to respond, so I set my phone down, feeling more stressed than I was before I picked it up. And what does Hildy mean she has less than two months? The only decision I’ve managed to make since agreeing to an August date is to use Rick and Leona’s backyard for the venue.
Their house is gorgeous and looks like a mountain cabin that belongs in the Rockies instead of central Ohio. There’s a giant A-frame window that sticks off the back of the house and a massive deck with open steps that leads to the sprawling yard. I think Leona sensed my panic when everyone started asking me about wedding plans and quietly offered up their immaculate grounds. I was more than happy to accept and took the opportunity to cross one extremely important task off the list.
Still on his phone, Colson doesn’t look at me, but, somehow, he knows I’m keeping an eye on him out of the corner of my eye.
“Sorry,” he finally locks his screen and tucks his phone back into his pocket, “Sergei—someone I used to work with.”
I crack a smile, “When you were a bear bodyguard? ”
“A bear bodyguard, ” he laughs, “that’s what Dallas calls it. Have you all been talking about me?”
I give a shrug, “She had a lot to say about it.”
“She has a lot to say about everything,” he retorts.
“Well, Sergei is a Russian name and you used to live in Alaska—just an educated guess.”
“You’re half right,” Colson replies, “I met him in Canada, but he just started his own company and he’s trying to get me to come back and work for him.”
“What kind of company?”
Colson doesn’t answer, just looks at me with the tiniest of smiles.
I shoot him a look, “Does it involve high-powered rifles?”
He nods, “Rifles, yes,” then he shakes his head, “bears, no.”
When I only respond with a roll of the eyes, Colson tilts his head and peers at me from his chair as I turn back to my emails, “Do you not want me to?” he finally asks.
I don’t look up as I tap the mouse and hit delete, “Not want you to do what?”
“Go back to watching for polar bears.”
“I thought you said it didn’t involve polar bears,” I point out, “and besides, what I think about it doesn’t matter.”
“Sure, it does,” he knits his brow, “if you asked me not to do it, I wouldn’t.”
He’s just fucking with you. Don’t react to him.
“I suppose that’s a relief,” I sigh. “Would you go back? For something other than polar bear protection, I mean.”
“Maybe. Alaska’s a big place. So’s Canada.” He taps the top of his leg with his thumb, “But you already know that.”
I haven’t forgotten what Bowen said about not telling Colson too much about my life. But none of it matters because there’s a lot that Colson already knew about me before he got here. And he can find out whatever he wants regardless of whether I tell him or not…
“You wouldn’t go back to Katmai?” I ask with surprise.
Colson leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, “If you went with me, I might.”
By now, I should be used to the way he talks, but I’m not. So, I do what I usually do. I brush him off, deflect, and compartmentalize. It’s what I do best.
I roll my eyes at him, “It would take something earth-shattering for me to move to Alaska.”
“You’d be closer to your sister.”
“Nice try,” I scoff, “Toronto is on the other side of the country from Alaska and Yukon. ”
Colson shrugs and leans back in his chair again, “Guess I’m staying here, then.”
Since he wants to keep talking about Alaska, I take the opportunity to ask him about the only thing I’m really curious about. But as soon as I open my mouth, I hesitate, the awkward end to my conversation with Hildy still fresh in my mind.
“Dallas told me what happened in Alaska,” I swallow hard, “with your girlfriend.”
Colson blinks, not saying anything at first. For a moment, I wonder if it’s a mistake that I brought it up. But this is what I want to know, isn’t it? After what happened, I shouldn’t care about making him uncomfortable. He’s done enough of that to me.
“My girlfriend ,” he draws out the word, “that would’ve made for a better story, wouldn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Paige was my friend,” he explains, “she wanted to go up to Katmai Pass to take core samples from trees for her dissertation. I said I’d go with her because I didn’t want her getting lost or running into a bear or a moose. But I didn’t account for an 80-foot pine falling in the middle of the night.”
“Dallas said you tried to carry her out, but everything went wrong.”
Colson shakes his head, “I couldn’t save her,” he glances out the window, a defeated look in his eyes, “I couldn’t do anything except watch her die. Trees were her life, but she probably never thought she’d get taken out by one.”
“That’s awful. Is that why you left?”
Colson smiles bitterly, “When an indigenous woman goes into the woods with a white man and doesn’t come back alive, people start talking.” He shakes his head, “But she didn’t deserve to be the subject of rumors like that.”
I stare at him in silence, trying to read the expression behind his eyes.
“But I did lie to you about something,” Colson continues, “I didn’t come back from Alaska because I couldn’t handle the stress. I liked being out in the middle of nowhere, staring into the snow and waiting for something terrifying to appear. I loved the tension and the adrenaline, like I was living somewhere between life and death. But when you spend enough time staring at a blank canvas, eventually other things start appearing, whether you want them to or not.”
“It would be difficult to be alone with your thoughts after something like that happened,” I admit.
“When things get quiet and time slows down, it’s easy to start fixating on things you’ve tried to forget.”
“What do you fixate on?” I ask flatly.
Then I realize I probably don’t want to know the answer .
“I can’t do anything about Paige and I can’t do anything about my sister. But you’re not dead,” the way he says it is both endearing and ominous, “so, what good does it do me to stay up there when you’re down here?”
I look down at some random spot on the carpet, wishing he hadn’t said what he just said.
It seems it would do me a lot of good for you to stay up there…
“I’m sorry all of that happened to you, but—”
“Nothing happened to me,” Colson cuts me off, “those things happened to them. I just have to live with the aftermath.”
“ Fine, ” I purse my lips, “but what’s any of that got to do with me?”
Colson chews his nail for a moment and then lets his arm fall back into the armrest, “Because you did happen to me. And you were the first good thing to happen to me in a long time. Before that, there was just this void with nothing but anger and resentment and alcohol. And after, I didn’t want to do anything except be where you were.”
In a twisted way, part of me feels guilty for blaming him for what he did and how everything ended.
But the other part of me still wants him to pay for it. I had to deal with the aftermath of him and mourn the person I might’ve been.
“Are you going to say I led you out of the darkness—that I brought you happiness?” I taunt, flashing a sardonic smile. “Are you going to tell me that I lit up the room when I walked in, because I’m so pure and wonderful?” My smile disappears, “Because I don’t light up rooms. And it’s because of you.”
“Pure as saltwater,” Colson smiles, totally unfazed, “and you sting just as bad. You don’t light up anything. You wanted to stay with me in the dark, not make me leave. I’m still full of anger and resentment, I’m just sober now.”
“Yeah, well, congratulations,” I snip, “you happened to me, too. And if I’d known what would happen by setting foot in that house, I would’ve listened to my gut the first time you treated me like shit.”
“Is that why you finally decided to give me the time of day,” Colson tips his chin, “because you’re a glutton for punishment?”
“Sometimes I don’t know why I talk to you,” I sigh.
“You don’t?” He says it like he already knows the answer, in a patronizing tone that makes me want to slap him. He’s getting under my skin, and he knows it.
“Brett,” Colson glances at his watch and moves to stand, “you and I are more similar than you’d like to admit.” He strolls around to the front of my desk and plants his hands on the edge of the wood veneer, “You did listen to your gut that night. And I bet you’re still a sucker for some pain.” He grins and looks me up and down, sending a tremor deep through my stomach, “You probably still have the marks to prove it.”
I clench my jaw in shock. How can someone with such bright and vibrant eyes be so diabolical ?
Why is he doing this? And why do I feel anything other than blind hatred for him right now? I don’t need him coming in here and wrecking my life—again. But there’s no way I’ll ever let him see that he’s getting to me.
I lower my voice and glare up at him, “You need to stop.”
Colson gives a slight shake of his head, “You know I’ll never stop. I’ve had you out on loan long enough, Sorensen. I’ve come to collect.”
The way he looks at me makes my blood go cold. After a moment, he slowly straightens up and turns toward the door. His footsteps sound so much louder, magnified by the tension stifling the room.
He starts to leave, but pauses and turns around, “Oh, by the way,” he taps the doorframe, “that wasn’t salted caramel in your latte,” he winks before disappearing into the dim hallway.
I stare at the empty space, frozen, listening to my heart pounding. My eyes dart to the paper coffee cup, nearly empty now. A faint ringing gets steadily louder in my ears as I taste the sweet and acidic bite of the coffee on my tongue.
No. He’s a fucking liar.
I fly from my chair and march down the hallway, down the stairs, and all the way to the break room. I stop abruptly in front of the fancy coffee machine in the corner and scan the labels over each button. My stomach drops as I read each one: Espresso, dark roast, decaf, cappuccino, latte macchiato, iced coffee. Just like always.
I whip around and search the countertop catty-corner to the machine, where all the cups and stirrers and extra coffee additives are crowded together in a disorganized jumble. There are a couple of containers of French vanilla and hazelnut powder creamers and four bottles of Torani syrup—vanilla, chocolate, pumpkin spice, and caramel.
I give a hard stare at the caramel, then scrunch up my nose and hard swallow, pushing the bile back down. I can’t prove anything. It could just be the syrup.
It’s probably the syrup.
But now I can’t tell for sure. I can’t tell if it’s Colson getting in my head or if it’s something else that lingers ominously on my palate.
●●●
“Babe,” Bowen calls from the closet, “come here.”
I round the doorway to see Bowen standing at the dresser. He’s holding two folded long-sleeved shirts and staring into one of his drawers. When I peek around his arm, I see my grey Lake George hoodie neatly folded at the bottom of the drawer.
I turn to Bowen, stunned, “Where did that come from?”
He shrugs, “Must’ve gotten mixed in with my stuff.” He pulls the sweatshirt out and hands it to m e
before shutting the drawer.
I wait for Bowen to finish dressing and leave the closet before I carefully examine the sweatshirt. I should be happy, but it feels like a cursed relic in my hands. I know I saw it at the bottom of the tote in Hannah’s closet; there’s only one, with Navy blue block letters and a small grease stain near the right cuff. I raise the sweatshirt and press it to my nose, inhaling the cotton. It smells of our detergent and our fabric softener, like it’s been nestled in Bowen’s drawer for months. I can’t explain it. And I can’t ask Bowen about it without admitting to my own indiscretions.
Turning on my heel, I scurry from the closet and whip around the corner to the vanity. As soon as I tug open the third drawer down, my breath catches. My earrings—the gold hoops with the dangling stars—are laying neatly among the others. I jerk my head to the doorway and then back to the vanity. They were gone. Bowen even saw they were gone. And now they’re not.
This doesn’t do anything but destroy the false sense of security I managed to regain over the weekend. Now it’s Monday morning and, in an instant, I’m just as wound up as I was on Thursday afternoon after that creepy conversation with Colson—when he gave me tainted coffee.
I know he did. He admitted it, didn’t he? But that’s what he does, he doesn’t come right out and say things. Instead, he just waits and watches and revels in other people’s blissful ignorance until he picks the right time to strike. Just like he did back in college when he snuck into my room and…
I should’ve just told Barrett about it that night at dinner. But I didn’t, because then I would have to tell her other things that I’ve managed to keep nicely hidden away for three—nearly four years. As much as I want to, I can’t ignore Colson forever, just like I can’t ignore my belongings disappearing and reappearing at will in my closet.
But if Hannah actually brought my stuff back, why would she replace it exactly where she found it? It’s too…polite, especially for her. Bowen should’ve gotten our key back from Hildy, but I don’t put anything past Hannah anymore. Locks and keys don’t always stop people with obsessive tendencies. I should feel secure in this house, with a man who’s extremely protective of his space, but I don’t.
Even though I’m working from home again today, I still get up at the same time as Bowen so we can eat breakfast and drink coffee together. He’s sitting on the sofa with a bowl of cereal in his lap, scrolling through emails on his phone. His full mug is on the coffee table next to mine, but he always leaves my bowl of cereal on the kitchen island with the milk sitting next to it so I can pour it myself.
I’m looking forward to another solitary workday at home. Granted, I’ll probably still end up talking to Abby over Zoom for an inordinate amount of time. After pouring the milk, I open the refrigerator and replace it on the first shelf in the door. And, when I do, I stop short .
Next to the space where the milk always sits is a small, rectangular bottle with a purple cap. I don’t even have to look at the label to know what it is—a Naked Mango Madness smoothie.
But I didn’t put it there. I know I didn’t put it there.
I forget everything I’ve tried to carefully bury to avoid dealing with the low-key sense of doom simmering for months and snatch the bottle from the refrigerator door. Throwing the door shut, I pass the island to the living room.
I hold up the smoothie, “What is this?”
Bowen looks over his shoulder and squints at the bottle, “What is that?” he repeats, tossing his phone onto the coffee table.
“It’s a smoothie,” I sit down on the cushion next to Bowen, “but I didn’t buy it.”
He continues munching his cereal, unconcerned, “Then where’d it come from?”
I stare at the bottle and then quickly set it down on the coffee table like it’s burning my hand, “I don’t know, ” I say in a dumbfounded whisper.
“Did you bring it home from work?”
I shake my head and look at the bottle again like I’m expecting it to sprout legs and jump off the table. I don’t just buy smoothies and forget about them.
“How long’s it been in there?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” he shrugs, “this is the first time I’ve seen it.”
Shit.
Once he sees the look on my face, Bowen stops eating, “Are you OK? Why are you bugging out about a smoothie?”
Because I didn’t do this, but I know who did…
But I’m still afraid to tell him, because then he would ask who, and I don’t want to open that can of worms when I don’t even have any proof. I can’t just say that someone came into our house, deposited an unopened smoothie in the fridge, and then left.
“I just don’t remember,” I say quietly.
Even now, I’m racking my brain, second-guessing myself. I know I didn’t put it there, but it’s easier to think that than the likelihood that something more insidious is happening.
“It happens,” Bowen weaves his fingers through mine and brings my hand up to kiss it, “it’s a smoothie, not a goddamn head in the fridge.”
Yet…
But I nod, accepting Bowen’s explanation out of necessity, because I can’t sit here and think about the alternative. Not when in a half hour, Bowen will leave for work and the sound of the gravel under his tires will fade into the distance. Then I’ll be alone in this house for the rest of the day with the silence and my own thoughts, trying not to fixate on things that appear when I don’t want them to.
Like a polar bear lurking in the snow .
After deciding not to dwell on it further, at least for now, I abandon my soggy cereal on the island and guzzle coffee instead. Trying to focus on my breathing and keeping the adrenaline at bay, I let my eyes wander over the room. Finally, they settle on Waylon, chewing on a deer antler in the middle of the floor.
I wish dogs could talk, because I would only ask Waylon one thing.
Who have you seen walk through this house?