CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Brett
Present
“Like I said at our last session, I want to try something new with you today,” Judy clasps her hands pensively, “it’s called Accelerated Resolution Therapy.”
She looks pretty excited. But, then again, Judy always looks excited. She brushes her flowy sagebrush skirt down her leg and bounces her foot, adorned with bright orange polish and matching shade of Chaco sandals.
“Research shows that bilateral stimulation helps repair parts of the nervous system that are damaged when someone goes through a traumatic event.” She motions around her head emphatically as she explains, “ART helps your brain process all that through eye movements and, as a result, your nervous system actually heals and desensitizes you so that you no longer have severe reactions when exposed to triggers.”
It's a nice thought, not waking up trying to claw my way out of my bedroom or, at the very least, not feeling like there are someone’s eyes boring into the back of my head every time I leave my house. Not like it matters if I leave my house…I feel like he’s there, too.
“This will keep me calm whenever I think about him instead of giving me anxiety and panic attacks?”
A wide, mischievous smile spreads across Judy’s face as she slowly nods her head.
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, “OK, let’s do it…” my chest trembles as I try to keep the lump in my throat down, “because I can’t live like this anymore.”
●● ●
“Seriously,” I toss my turquoise leather cross-body across the console to the passenger seat, “thank you for everything. We should do this again, except without the car repairs,” I say with a laugh.
“It’s the least I could do, especially after smashing your bumper,” Valerie glances to the side sheepishly, “did insurance cover the entire thing?”
“Oh, yeah,” I nod, “aside from waiting on the part, the whole thing was pretty seamless, even with the weird ignition issue.”
By late afternoon, my 4Runner is otherwise good as new and I’m finally about to head back home after Valerie drops me at the dealership. With a promise to make plans next week, she embraces me in a farewell hug coated in vanilla and orange blossom perfume and turns to head back to her SUV.
“Oh, um—” Valerie turns around and opens her mouth, but hesitates before finally shaking her head, “never mind.”
“What is it?” I ask, climbing into the driver’s seat.
Valerie bobs her head back and forth briefly and then approaches my door, “What—” she lowers her voice, “what did you mean by he has a type? ”
“Who?” I scrunch up my face, utterly oblivious.
“Ah…um…” she stammers, “the guy…the one you told me about.”
“ Oh! ” I exclaim. “Sorry, that guy.” I squint at her with amusement as I pull my seatbelt across my chest, “You want to know?”
“Sorry,” her eyes fall to the asphalt and she shakes her head again, picking at her lavender nail polish, “I shouldn’t have asked, that’s weird.”
“No,” I shrug, sliding my sunglasses up the bridge of my nose, “it’s OK. It’s in the past. I don’t mind talking about it anymore.”
I press my brake pedal and push the ignition. The engine roars to life, just as it should, and I start bobbing my head to the Limp Bizkit song that blares through the speakers at a much higher volume than I left it before my car got towed. I suspect the mechanics were having a good time…
I turn to the window and rap a few lyrics at Valerie, “Sorry,” I giggle before refocusing my attention, “I like this song.”
She doesn’t seem as mirthful as I am right now. In fact, she looks downright unsettled for someone whose vehicle hasn’t been in the shop for two days. I glance over her shoulder at her SUV, shiny white in the blazing summer sun, and then turn back to her.
“Anyway, his type…” I take a deep breath and rest my elbow on the edge of the window, “redheads,” I deadpan.
Valerie stares at me intently, waiting for me to say more, “Redheads?”
“Redheads,” I repeat, “it doesn’t matter what kind—light, dark, long, short, ginger, tan…but it’s a double-edged sword. If you’re a redhead, he loves you to death—literally.”
She furrows her brow and glances across the parking lot, “And if not?”
I hesitate for a moment and then lean forward, lowering my voice, “Then you’re either a knowing accomplice or unknowing dupe. ”
It’s just as well that Valerie can’t see my eyes behind my tortoise shell sunglasses, because otherwise she might just grow antlers and turn into a real deer in headlights in the middle of the Toyota dealership.
“Well,” I jerk the gearshift into drive, “talk to you soon!” I flash her a smile and pull away, leaving her still standing in front of the service department.
Cranking up my playlist, I give Fred Durst all I have until I hit the freeway and then begin to relax and let my mind wander. For someone who recognized me as Brett Sorensen the author, it’s kind of odd that Valerie never really asked about my book—just that one comment when we met on the day she listened to the Spice Ghouls podcast. Then again, there were other things going on, like her smashing into my bumper. Plus, she probably had other things on her mind before that.
Forty-five minutes later, I’m finally pulling into the gravel drive flanked by two junipers. I park the 4Runner out front, and as soon as I reach the front door, my eye catches a small box sitting at the bottom of the oak door. It’s a run-of-the-mill brown cardboard box, but there’s no shipping label on it—or any label, for that matter.
I stare at it for a few moments before jerking my head up and looking around, doing a scan of the property from the porch. All I see is the vast span of trees across the lawn and the empty driveway that leads to the road. I’m still alone here, as far as I can see. Slowly, I reach down and grab the box, no bigger than my hand. It feels empty, but as soon as I turn it over, I feel something slide across the inside.
Once safely inside the house, I immediately start tearing open the seams of the box, dumping the contents out into my open hand.
There’s only one thing inside—a flash drive.
It’s generic, black, and otherwise normal looking, but I know whatever’s on it is probably anything but normal.
I rush down the hall to my office, collapsing into the chair in front of my computer. But I hesitate before popping the flash drive into my port. What if it’s a virus that infects my machine and deletes everything I have? It’s not an irrational fear…
But that seems pretty basic for such a specific item left at my door. Whatever’s on it is clearly meant to be viewed by me, I just don’t know if I actually want to view it. No, that’s a lie—I’d rather dip my hands in sulfuric acid right now than find out what’s on this flash drive. But I have to.
Gathering my wits, I plug it into the port and wait for it to register in my file explorer. When it finally does, I steel myself and click on the folder, preparing for whatever hell is about to fill my screen.
But when it does, it’s not a threatening note or a grainy video of one of my loved ones being held for ransom in a basement somewhere. It’s a Word file labeled with my name. I hesitate for a moment while I try to steady my breathing. Once it’s calm, I double-click the file and wait for it to open .
When it does, I have to blink a few times to register what I’m seeing. It’s a threat, plain as day, but not the kind I expect.
My eyes move down the screen to the page count, and then the word count. I stare at the first page for a few seconds before my index finger starts scrolling at lightning speed, rage building with every page my eyes skim. Finally, I stand up, my fists clenched and chest heaving. I whip out my phone and tap the icon for my security cameras, searching the list for the feed pointed at the front door.
But when I tap it, the image is black with the word Disconnected at the bottom. Then I notice my phone is using data rather than Wifi.
With a frustrated growl, I crouch down next to my desk to check the router plugged into the wall. The red light is on instead of the green, so I flip the power off, wait a minute or so, and then turn it back on. It doesn’t connect. I do it another three times with no effect before storming out of my office to the front door.
But, as soon as I grab the knob, I freeze. I don’t know if I want to see what’s on the other side of this door, but I have to know. I have to know what I’m dealing with.
Your hypervigilance is a trauma response. It’s what your brain does to keep you safe.
I let go of the knob and turn around, heading back down the hall to the bedroom. I jerk open the drawer of my birch side table and reach inside, retrieving a black Glock in a black leather holster.
Just like his.
I tuck the holster in the back of my cutoff shorts, clipping it to the soft polyester maternity waistband, and pull my shirt down over it. I’ll have to relocate it by the time the baby is born. But, by then, none of this will matter. I won’t need it anymore.
Now armed, I tug open the front door and step out onto the porch. It’s still an ordinary summer day. The sun is shining, the heat at its peak, and the property is teeming with wildlife, still as active as ever. I’m the only one with a problem, now stalking back down the driveway toward the road. And when I reach it, I find what I’m looking for.
Next to one of the junipers guarding the entrance to my driveway is the pole that connects our electricity and internet to a series of smaller poles leading through the trees up to the house. I stare up at it for a few moments and then let my eyes fall down to the ground, searching until I see the wire laying neatly across the grass.
When I walk over to it to inspect it, I note that it wasn’t pulled loose by a fallen limb, the wire isn’t old and deteriorated, and the rest of the wires connected to the poles along the road are still intact.
This wire is cut clean.
I lift my head and methodically scan the trees before slowly turning and starting back up the driveway to the house. As soon as I reach my 4Runner, I hear a faint bark echo through the woods. Slowing my pace, I pause and then veer off the driveway and around the house to the backyard. I come to a halt at the deck stairs and pause to listen. Eventually, I hear another distant bark.
Our dog followed them into the woods when they left on their hunting trip and hasn’t come back.
This in itself isn’t surprising. It’s what he does all day, every day. He patrols the perimeter, wanders through the woods, does whatever it is dogs do when they have a hundred acres of freedom. I gaze into the trees, remembering that there’s another barn, deeper in the woods, where ranchers used to keep cows a long time ago when they pastured on the other side of the creek.
Maybe he’s there. At least, I hope he is by the time it gets dark and the coyotes start calling. He’s used to them, but I still worry because I know what they can do if they surround a lone animal. Coyotes, in general, used to scare the fuck out of me, but not so much anymore.
I’ve seen worse than coyotes. I’ve been hunted by worse. And I’ve seen real monsters in the woods.
I glance down at my phone, now reliant on data, and then set my jaw and march toward the dense tree line.
Come on, the corner of my mouth curls, destiny’s waiting.