CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
Brett
One Year Ago
The grey stone townhouses and luxury apartments on the river give way to sprawling suburban parks decorated with bronze woodland creatures dancing on the hillside. Soon, the manicured subdivisions disappear and the road stretches along vast fields alternating between corn and soybeans framed by tracts of forest. So Ohio...
I feel like I’m outside my body, watching myself do things that seem so alien. I never bounce around from house to house, not knowing where I’ll be sleeping next. I’ve never been a nomad, fleeing out of necessity or boredom. I relish the stationary life; constant, predictable, and full of routine.
Now I’m a refugee.
I never thought I’d wake up one day and realize my home is no longer my own. And maybe it never was. It was always his home, and it’ll stay that way. I’m the latest infatuation, until I’m not. Some things Bowen will never share with anyone—not really.
“At least you still have your money and your skin,” Barrett reminds me, “like it or not, that’s what matters now.”
That’s what matters now…
She’s right, of course. I glance down at my pink racerback tank, the same type that Bowen nearly tore off me while I was fighting him, and the faint bruises along my shoulders and chest. A small price to pay, I suppose, considering the alternative .
Soon, there’s a lull in our conversation and we both become acutely aware of our surroundings. I look over at Barrett, and she does the same, acknowledging the eerie feeling hanging between us. But, regardless, she continues driving west, straight into the sun, keeping an eye on her navigation screen.
“Is this right?” she finally asks.
“It’s the address he sent me,” I look down at my phone and compare it to what’s on her Jeep’s dashboard, “it’s in the city limits.”
“This just feels…”
“Familiar?” I finish her sentence as I stare out the window at the honeysuckle lining the roads I’ve driven countless times before.
Barrett flips her turn signal and swings a slow right as though she’s deciding whether she even wants to. I can feel the anxiety begin to rise the farther we travel down the road, not another car in sight. When we crest the next hill and emerge out of the brush-lined dip in the road, my stomach drops.
Swiveling to the left, I stare past Barrett at Rick and Leona’s chateau-like home at the top of a distant hill and my heart starts beating double-time.
“Where the hell are we going?” I spit in frustration.
“That’s what I’m saying!” Barrett hisses back. “Why did he send us here?”
I nod to a gravel pull-off next to an access road by the woods, “Pull over.”
Barrett whips over and nearly skids to a halt as I glance at the navigation screen—ETA two minutes. Then I drag my finger down the glass, following the blue line toward our destination. It ends at a non-descript green square off the road with no other buildings or houses around it. I let out a frustrated huff, not knowing what to do.
“Is there even a house there?” Barrett murmurs, while keeping an eye on the road in both directions. “Are you sure that was the only app Bowen put on your phone?”
“What? Yeah,” I stammer, “I mean, I think so…”
But now I don’t know. Why did Colson send me an address so close to the Garrison’s property? Was it even Colson? Did Dallas miss something?
“Let’s just drive up and check it out,” Barrett pulls back out onto the road, “we don’t have to get out of the car.”
She follows the directions down a few windier roads I’ve never travelled before and finally turns down a long gravel drive lined with pines. Soon, the pines reveal into a clearing scattered with birches and ashes and maples surrounding a two-story house with dark wood siding, green metal roof, and wide front porch. An ancient, cracked tire swing hangs by a fraying rope from the jagged burr oak in the middle of the yard. Just past the house, the dirt path leads to a pole building with dented white metal siding, the edges laced with rust. Beyond that, the grass dips down and I can see the creek flowing just through the trees .
It looks deserted. I pinch my index finger and thumb together over the screen to zoom out, “What the—” my eyes round in shock, “ what the hell is this? ”
The more I enlarge the map, the picture becomes clearer. Our destination lies near the western end of the large green square. This square butts up right against a more massive green square with a house situated on the eastern side—Bowen’s house.
Barrett sucks in a breath and looks up, her eyes darting across the windshield, scanning the tree line around the house.
I stare at the map, paralyzed with fear, “Oh my god…”
Barrett moves to shift into reverse, “We need to go.”
Before she can pump the brake, both our eyes dart up to the rearview mirror as a pair of headlights whips into the gravel drive. The vehicle’s tires spin and the engine revs, kicking up dust in its wake. It’s coming fast. Both of us jerk around in our seats as it barrels through the pine tunnel, nothing but blinding lights in the shadow of the trees.
“ Shit! ” Barrett shrieks, grabbing the steering wheel.
But there’s nowhere to go, and it’s too late. The car bursts into the clearing and looks like it’s about to crash into the back bumper of the Jeep before it jerks to the side and skids to a stop, blocking us in. Only then do I see the rest of the car outside of its bright lights.
It’s a blue STI.
“It’s Colson,” I breathe, my heart still pounding.
A low rumble emits from Barrett’s chest as she scowls over her shoulder. She kicks open her door and propels out of the seat, “Colson fucking Lutz!” she roars, slamming her door so hard, the entire Jeep rocks.
I scramble out my door just as she rounds the back of the Jeep, fists clenched and knuckles white.
“Nice to see you, too, Barrett,” Colson smiles as he walks toward us. He furrows his brow when he sees the dubious look on my face, “What’s wrong?”
“You live behind Bowen?” I blurt out in astonishment, “ How? ”
Before he can respond, Barrett marches up to him and backhands him across the arm with a crack, “What the hell is wrong with you?” She barely comes up to his shoulder. “I was ready to drive us through the fucking forest!”
Colson glances down at her with amusement and shrugs, “It’s like a drag strip, you get some good speed. Couldn’t you see me?”
“No!” she shrieks. “You could’ve at least—” suddenly, she lets out a scream and stumbles to the side as a giant, black German shepherd appears out of nowhere and pokes its wet nose into her hand.
My shoulders shake with laughter as Barrett hops around in fright. The dog looks up at her with curiosity, its pointy ears twitching as she jerks around. I can’t help it, she’s more wound up than I am. She paces back and forth across the grass, hands on her hips, trying to calm down.
I look up at Colson, “We thought it was a trap,” I mutter before turning back to the Jeep.
I tug the back passenger door open and swing my duffel and tote over my shoulder. I’m tired of carrying them, a reminder of the only belongings I have left. I don’t want to think about that, either.
When I turn around, Barrett is standing next to Colson, much more solemn now. The forlorn look on her face makes me want to climb back into her Jeep, pick up some takeout, and go back home with her to watch Euphoria and send each other memes from across the sofa. But I know I can’t.
My Tahoe is still there. My Tahoe…I scoff under my breath. It’s not even mine. I never got around to adding myself to the title, and Bowen never cared either way. Now I see why…
The GPS tracker is also at her house. She’ll turn it off eventually, but as long as I’m not there, Barrett will be safe and Bowen won’t have any reason to come after her.
“I’ll let you know what I’m doing—you know—when I find out.” I crack a smile as I reach for her.
We hug each other all the time, every time we see one another, but this time feels different. We hold just as tight, like a cocoon woven around all the history and the memories that have kept us together so long. We sear each other into our collective consciousness in a moment that reminds us why we’ve stuck together.
When Barrett lets go, she turns to Colson, her jaw tight and her eyes ablaze, “I know Brett trusts you, and she has more sense than either of us,” she points her finger up at him, her voice raspy and threatening, “but I swear to God, Colson—" she can’t get the rest of the words out before her chin begins to tremble.
Colson gently takes her by the wrist and wraps his other arm around her neck. She lets him pull her to his chest, gripping his shoulder as he presses his mouth to her ear. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but eventually Barrett starts nodding and takes a deep breath. When she pulls away, her eyes are wet and her cheeks flushed, but she looks calmer.
I tap the edge of Barrett’s door as soon as she climbs back into the driver’s seat, “Text me when you get home and let me know everything’s OK.”
“Don’t worry, I have a plan,” she says as she fastens her seatbelt, “I asked Clay to come stay for a couple of days. When I told him why, he got really excited and now I think he’s bringing Dalton, too,” she waggles her eyebrows at the last part.
I glance away with a grin. I can just imagine Barrett’s brother and his best friend posting up at her house; two linemen straight out of the holler, rolling in to clean out her fridge and look for a fight. At least she’s guaranteed to be safe with them.
“OK, before I leave, be straight with me,” Barrett slides her sunglasses up her nose, “was Colson ever serviced by—” she glances over my shoulder at Colson leaning against his STI, “Roto Rooter?”
My soul nearly leaves my body, “No,” I creak out through uncontrollable laughter, “no, he wasn’t.”
And I continue laughing as the Jeep’s taillights shrink in the distance and they disappear around the edge of the pines. I should’ve known Barrett wouldn’t have left here any other way.
Colson reaches into his backseat for his backpack, “What’s so funny?”
“You’d be mortified,” I reply, trying to compose myself. Changing the subject, I nod to the pole building behind the house, “Is your baby in there?” I ask, referring to his Bronco.
“Of course,” he shoots me a knowing look before lifting my duffel bag off my shoulder and taking it from me. “Pony!” he calls to the German shepherd and nods to the house.
Pony runs up the path, leaps up the stairs, and waits for us on the porch. Much lighter, I follow Colson up the dusty walk. The house looks old, like it’s stood here for the better part of a century, nothing like the Gothic waterfront estate he used to live in. He digs into his pocket for his keys, the black German shepherd waiting patiently behind me while he does so.
“You still haven’t said how you came to live right behind Bowen.”
“This house belongs to the family of a girl I know from high school. Her dad grew up here, but nobody’s lived here for years,” Colson opens the door and motions inside, “so, I told him if he let me live here, I’d start fixing it up.”
When I step through the door, it’s like walking into two separate houses. Light from the sliding glass door on the back wall floods into the great room, illuminating the entire first floor. The kitchen looks brand-new, with fresh white cabinets, new black appliances, and stainless-steel countertops, a stark contrast to the living room that still has maroon shag carpet and walls peppered with patches of spackle.
I gaze around the room, “So, you pay rent in renovations?”
“Most of it’s cosmetic, so it’s really not that complicated,” he steps over the threshold and nods for the German shepherd to come in before swinging the door shut and locking it behind him.
Colson leads me up the staircase where smooth, clean hardwood sprouts from the ancient, worn-down carpet. The walls in the hallway still need painted, but the upstairs is otherwise finished, with crisp white baseboards, refinished oak floors, and paint the color of storm clouds in the room where he sets down my bag before we return to the stairs.
“That’s…really nice of you.”
“It’s more than a fair trade,” he shrugs .
But I know the rent doesn’t matter to Colson. There’s still the unspoken reason—the one where Colson chose to live on this property because it’s the closest that he can get to the house where I lived with his sister’s murderer.
●●●
In some surreal twist of fate, I’m finally able to relax enough to space out at the kitchen table. I never thought I’d find myself back in a house with Colson, much less entering one willingly—out of necessity.
I don’t think too much about it at first, because if I don’t laugh about it, I’ll just start crying. The infamous German shepherd named after Ponyboy Curtis lays next to the sliding glass door behind me, staring out the window like a statue, scanning the trees for movement—animal or otherwise. Maybe Dallas was onto something when she named him. He’s a formidable dog with a dark and tough exterior, but all he wants is a good ear scratch, at least from me.
When Colson comes back downstairs, he’s changed out of his standard black pants, black shirt, and black boots into grey joggers and a black sleeveless undershirt. He moves through the kitchen, grabbing items from the refrigerator, dishes from the cabinet, not ignoring me, but just embracing the silence. I watch with odd satisfaction as he begins combining ingredients in a glass bowl. Egg yolks, olive oil…then he pulls a large knife out of the block on the counter and starts chopping anchovies. My mouth begins to water. Is this what he does when he’s by himself—makes Caesar dressing from scratch? That is, when he’s not hovering in my office or following me.
Jesus, he was out here all along…
When Colson turns to slide the bowl back into the refrigerator, I see that the constellations tattooed on his arm don’t end at his bicep. They extend over his shoulder and disappear beneath his shirt across his back and chest. The sky is big, but so is he. Maybe he’s not finished yet.
He exchanges the bowl for a rectangular glass container and strolls over to the sliding glass door. When he makes a clicking noise with his tongue, Pony immediately jumps up and rushes out ahead of him, disappearing somewhere off the deck. I watch Colson over my shoulder as he plucks four chicken breasts out of the marinade and tosses them onto the grill with a hiss.
As soon as the breeze rushes through the trees, stark green against the crisp blue sky, it catches the smoke and carries it through the open door. And once it hits my nose, everything suddenly feels familiar, smells familiar, and looks familiar.
I’m back in the house where I grew up. My dad is grilling chicken, just like this, and my mom is tossing vegetables in a bowl. Jo and I are somewhere outside running through grass, falling from tree branches, and watching the boats out on the water. Everyone is barefoot because you don’t wear shoes in the summer. The weathered deck, the kitchen tile, the oak tabletop, and the way the sun cuts through the glass and showers the living room in golden light—it feels like…
Home.
It still feels that way when Colson sets down the biggest plate of chicken Caesar salad I’ve ever seen in my life. The feeling lingers for a little while longer as I skewer each piece of chicken and lettuce and Parmesan, cramming as much of it onto my fork as will fit and shoveling it into my mouth. I haven’t eaten anything in two days other than a bowl of cereal at Barrett’s house when I finally started tweaking out from the near constant flow of caffeine I was mainlining. It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted, and I eat every single bite.
As soon as my plate is clean, the sun dips behind the trees, casting the kitchen into shadow. Pony stands and lumbers out the open door. I watch him trot straight out to the edge of the yard, make a sharp left, and start following the tree line.
“Where’s he going?” I ask Colson.
“He walks the perimeter every couple of hours.”
“Did you train him to do that?”
“No,” he shakes his head and proceeds to gulp down half his water bottle, “he’s always done it on his own, no matter where we live. He needs a job or he gets neurotic.”
Maybe Pony and I have a lot in common. I need something to do, something to focus on, or else I go insane, too. Except, lately, it doesn’t matter what I’m focusing on, I’m resigned to a fate of high anxiety.
The sun is gone and I’m suddenly reminded that I’m not at my childhood home in North Bay. My mom’s not in this kitchen, my dad’s not on the deck, and I’m not chasing Jo across the grass. There’s no water or boats or the neighbor boys scaring us with firecrackers.
Maybe this is who I am now; a frightened, paranoid, hollowed-out shell of a person trying to survive on a steady drip of adrenaline and caffeine laced with impending doom. Barrett’s right, everything I do is tainted with weird habits and overly specific routines. Ever since…
“I know the feeling,” my eyes fall to the table, “when things get too quiet.”
“You’re safe here, you know.”
As soon as Colson says it, a match strikes somewhere deep in my chest, a spark of sulfur racing toward a stick of dynamite. Pictures of him and the sound of his voice flash through my mind until, soon, they morph into Bowen’s face and Bowen’s voice, spun up all together in a twister of angst, resentment, and grief. If Colson never saw me at that party, if I hadn’t gone out with him, if I’d been able to let go of him, if I hadn’t been searching for him in someone else…
If…if…if …
“With you?” I’m picking at the cuticle of my thumb so intensely that I don’t realize my fingertip is smeared with blood. “Like last time?”
When he meets my eyes, my muscles are so rigid that I feel the veins popping in my neck and each breath feels like my lungs are made of iron.
“No,” Colson says with a hint of a smile, “not like last time.”
I’m sitting with him at his kitchen table, in his house, next-fucking-door to the Garrisons, on a gorgeous summer night, eating dinner like everything is perfectly normal. But, it’s not.
“But it is like last time,” I return a bitter smile, “the only difference is that now I know why you like me so much. It’s the same reason Bowen does, and now it’s the reason he hates me.”
Colson’s eyes narrow slightly, “And what reason is that, Brett?” he challenges.
I plant my elbows on the edge of the table, “Because I’m a ghost.” I stare intently over the oak table, “Yeah…” I lower my voice, the resentment bubbling over, “I figured it out pretty quickly. Col and Bo locked in an eternal battle, destroying everyone who gets in their way. But you forgot that this is my life, too. I’m not the reincarnated ghost of Evie Maguire,” I clench my jaw, my nostrils flaring, “ I’m not a replacement for your dead sister! ”
I shoot up out of my chair, grab my plate, and hurl it onto the kitchen floor, shattering it across the tile. Colson stares blankly at the ceramic shards as they scatter across the floor.
“No,” he gives a placid shake of his head, “no one can replace Evie. And even if I could get her back—right now—she wouldn’t be a replacement for you, Brett. Because without you, I stay suspended in one moment in time, forever. And without me, you would’ve eventually ended up suspended in your own moment in time—forever 24 years old, broken and destroyed, hidden away in the dark where no one will find you, while everyone you ever knew lives on, remembering a shadow of who you once were.”
He describes my death so easily, but I know it’s because he’s already seen death and met it face to face. And now he sees my face there, too. But I’m not like him. I’m still running from death.
“I don’t know why I decided to go drinking one night and walked into the same house as you,” he continues, “I don’t know why yours is the pulse I feel over my own or why yours is the only love worth chasing. Maybe you can ask God whenever you see him, but the only way you and I keep living is with each other, and you need to come to terms with that in whatever way you see fit.”
He speaks so plainly, like everything’s already been revealed to him and he’s accepted his fate.
“I know what you did to me back then wasn’t your fault,” I say it like I’m still trying to convince myself, “but you should’ve told me what happened. Just like you should’ve told me about Bowen. I’m so tired of only getting pieces of you, or anyone else, for that matter.” I look down, wincing as I furiously pick at my fingers, “You could’ve told me all of it. But you just decided to fuck with me instead. You made me love you and hate myself… and now I hate you, too! ” I roar.
A heavy silence hangs between us as the echo dissipates through the kitchen. Finally, Colson rises from his chair and closes the space between us, his jeweled eyes boring into me.
He stops so close that his chest brushes my shoulder, “Do you?” he barks, giving me a start.
But I’m so broken, I don’t even have the guts to look at him. He towers over me, his chest rising and falling like a dragon about to breathe fire. I’m absolutely sure I’ve sealed my fate. Maybe he actually will kill me, and this time it’ll be a conscious decision. Maybe I just prefer Colson’s eerie serenity over Bowen’s gnashing teeth. Maybe, this time, I’ll thank him while he finally puts me out of my misery, as long as he does it with a straight face…
I only glance up when Colson steps past me on his way across the room. He opens the closet next to the front door and shoves his arm into his backpack hanging on the hook. I can’t make out what he’s doing until he slams the door shut and swings both hands out in front of him.
The heavy metallic snap as he pulls back the slide and chambers a round in his Glock sends a wave of terror through my chest. I remain motionless, petrified as I watch him from the other side of the table. His eyes trained on me, he strolls back into the kitchen, the gun swinging with his gait. He returns to my side, his body heat radiating against me while he invades my space. Trembling, I manage to look up at him for a split second and meet his eyes, ablaze with contempt.
Colson takes the barrel of the gun in his other hand and offers the grip to me. My eyes dart back and forth in confusion.
“Take it,” his deep voice cuts through the silence.
When I hesitate, he shoots me a warning look. I don’t want his gun, but I reluctantly lift my hand and wrap my fingers around the grip.
He lets go of the barrel and takes a step back, “Shoot me.”
“What?” I murmur, glancing down at the gun hanging at my side.
Colson lifts his chin, his blue eyes reflecting back at me with defiance, “ Shoot me, ” he says louder this time.
“No,” I whisper, looking around the kitchen for God knows what.
“Have you lost your sting, Honeybee?” his voice drips with disdain, “You know you want to after what I did to you. You remember what an amazing night that was...”
Slowly, I raise my eyes to meet his, clenching my jaw as his face begins to change, like a man transforming into a beast before my eyes.
“Remember how bad I fucked with your head?” Colson grins, sensing my anger like blood in the water, “And still, you wanted me so bad that you drove to Cincy with me,” he runs his tongue along the backs of his teeth, his tone turning venomous, “you were so hungry for more that you fucked my hand on the way back. And you liked that so much that you made me pull over so I could fuck your face!”
I grit my teeth and look away as he taunts me, but he doesn’t let up.
He leans in, bumping my head with his nose, “You made a deal with the devil that night, didn’t you? I marked you as mine, tasted your blood on my tongue, and you surrendered everything to me—mind, body, and soul,” he leans into my ear with a whisper, “signed, sealed, and fucked.”
The gun barrel taps my thigh as my hand starts to tremble.
Colson pulls back, “I should’ve kept you tied to that bed. Then you wouldn’t have run off and broke your promises like a lying little whore!” He looks me up and down, “Just see if I let you leave here again...”
I jerk my head up, my arm tensing.
“You want to know why I didn’t say anything until now?” he jeers at me, “Because fucking with you and getting under that soft, beautiful skin of yours is like being edged all day for months on end.”
My fingers tighten around the black metal.
“My fucked-up mind is what gets your panties wet, isn’t it? I can put a gun in your mouth—a gun —and you’ll keep coming back to me,” he lowers his voice again, “like a little bitch in heat.”
Now, all I hear is Bowen’s voice, assaulting my eardrums while air hisses through my teeth.
“You wanted me to find you. I almost put a bullet through your head, and you still loved me,” Colson growls, “because I am your worst. Fucking. Nightmare. ”
The next thing I see are my arms out in front of me, pressing the end of the barrel into his chest, tears blurring my vision.
“You gonna pull the trigger, Brett?” Colson snarls, “Do it! Before I bend you over my table. If you thought Bowen’s gun was bad, wait ‘til you see what I’m going to do.” His voice reverberates against my face, “ You’ll be wishing for death! ”
I pull the trigger and feel the click of the slide against my palm. Then all the air leaves my lungs, and everything goes silent.