CHAPTER NINETEEN
Brett
One Year Ago
Peeking out my doorway, I scan the hallway. Muted voices float out of open office doors, but it’s otherwise deserted. It’s a good time to make my getaway. Like a criminal in my own building.
I cringe in disgust at my paranoia, but still scurry down the hallway toward the stairs. It may be idiotic, but I still don’t want to have any unexpected encounters. The arctic blast of air on my face as soon as I push through the glass doors is surprisingly refreshing. It also means I’m a few steps further from the awkward mess that is my job now. As I trudge through the parking lot toward my SUV, I feel my phone ring.
I reach into the pocket of my bag and fish out my Drunk Tank pink phone. Hildy’s name flashes across the screen. Apparently, my contacts transferred properly, after all.
“Hey, where are you?” Hildy’s voice sounds distant, I’m probably on speaker.
“Leaving work. What are you doing?”
“Want to go to Costco?”
“Sure,” I laugh to myself. This is typical Hildy. “Let me text Bowen and see when he’s—” I don’t even finish my sentence before Hildy cuts me off.
“He’s still out with Dad. They’re about 45 minutes out, so they won’t be back for a bit.”
“God,” I scoff, “I should just call you instead of him.”
“I can always find him,” she laughs.
Hildy’s right, after all. Between working together and the twin connection, if anyone knows where Bowen is at any given time, it’s her .
“Shocker,” I roll my eyes, “OK, I need to stop at home to let Waylon out and then I’ll come over.”
As soon as I get into my car and shut the door, I get a text from Bowen.
BOWEN (4:10PM): Hildy said you’re going to Costco so I’ll start dinner when I get home
A second text comes through a few seconds later.
BOWEN (4:10PM): Can you get some of those voodoo mama juju pretzels
I snort as I text my response.
ME (4:11PM): The Zapp’s pretzel sticks? You got it.
BOWEN (4:11PM): Love you
After letting Waylon out and making sure he’s safely back on his bed by the fireplace with his favorite rawhide, I disappear into the bedroom to change into a pair of jeans, a sweater, and boots. I slip off my wedge ankle boots and tuck them against the wall under my clothes hanging on the left side of the closet.
I pause, my eyes wandering along the floor to the space where I found the photo of Bowen and Hannah. I shake my head, still astounded by the audacity that woman has to come in here and leave shit on my closet floor. Then I recall that night—New Years Eve—only a few days ago when I secretly watched the heated exchange between her and Bowen in the parking lot of the bar. He never did mention it, and I never asked about it.
I check the time and head into the bathroom to give myself a once-over. I straighten my sweater in front of the mirror and give my hair a scrunch. For some inexplicable reason, during the winter my lips drain of color as soon as my lip balm absorbs, transforming me into a walking corpse. Digging in my work bag, I find my reliable tube of Black Honey, which immediately turns out to be not so reliable. The metal edge scrapes across my lips, the tube all but empty. Reluctantly, I toss it into the garbage can with a groan, making a mental note to order more as I start digging through my makeup bag for a different tube.
Maple Sun saved me at the wedding, and it’ll save me again for the time being. Except that my fingers come back empty. The black tube with the gold band around the middle is gone. I pause, glance around the vanity, and then dig into the makeup bag a second time. The outcome is the same. When did I start misplacing things and losing everything?
I don’t .
I don’t just misplace things, much less multiple things in such a short amount of time.
My gaze shifts to the mirror, staring at my reflection, thinking. When I leave the bathroom, I stop in front of my vanity and stare at the drawers. A lot of things have gone missing lately. I turn and stroll out of the room, a black powder of suspicion igniting deep in my gut. I sweep my coat off the back of the couch and head back out to my SUV, pulling the front door behind me with a slam.
I’m still thinking about it as Hildy speeds down the county roads toward Costco like they’re about to run out of everything in the next 10 minutes.
“You’re a dead giveaway,” she snickers at me from the driver’s seat.
“What do you mean?” I glance up from my phone, pausing mid-text.
Hildy scoffs and rolls her eyes, “You’re texting Bo, right?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s obvious,” she flips the Yukon’s turn signal, “you wear your emotions on your face, especially when you’re texting.”
I screw up my face in disbelief, “How?” Until now, I always thought I had my poker face on lock.
It goes hand-in-hand with an avoidant personality.
“Oh, please, ” she hits me with a side-eye, “whenever you’re looking at your phone, you get this sneaky little grin on your face. You’re probably sending him nudes, aren’t you?” she laughs.
“I am not!” I shriek.
At least that’s not what I’m doing right now…
Hildy’s right about everything else, though. Bowen’s spicy pretzels are sitting on the floorboards next to my feet and I can’t wait to get home and see the look on his face when I set them on the counter. More than that, I can’t wait to walk through the door and see him standing at the kitchen island with his back to me, his muscles showing through his shirt, and his buzzed hair fading into the black swath that hangs over his eyes by the end of the day.
So, yes, Hildy is probably right about how I look when I text him.
“Yeah, whatever, liar,” she smirks. “Oh, do you mind if we make a quick stop? I told Hannah I’d run by her apartment, bring in her mail, and check on her cat since she’s out of town.”
I may not be able to hide my facial expressions when it comes to Bowen, but I can remain stoic in about every other situation. Hildy doesn’t notice the small fire ignite in my chest, the tiny spark in my eyes, or the subtle malice clawing its way from the back of my mind. She only sees the cheerful smile and agreeable nod.
My mind begins to wander—back to my makeup bag, back to my vanity, back to the creased photo on the closet floor, and back to every little flirtatious smirk Hannah gives Bowen .
Before I know it, Hildy throws her car into park and we’re suddenly sitting in front of a nondescript apartment complex with white vinyl siding and a pond out front. I follow her up the stairs to the second door on the right and wait for her to unlock the door with a gold key attached to a Bone Collector bottle opener keychain. Once inside, a black and white cat trots across the living room, its tags jingling, and rubs against Hildy’s leg.
“Hey Marco,” Hildy’s voice shoots up an octave as she bends down to scratch his chin.
Hannah’s apartment looks strangely how I imagined it would.
A light grey sectional takes up most of the living room, accented with white wooden furniture and shabby chic decor. While Hildy busies herself with feeding Marco, I wander over to a tall shelf next to the sliding glass door leading to the deck. It’s smattered with small potted plants, tactfully arranged books, and framed photos.
I immediately recognize one of the photos. Next to an overflowing pothos is the same photo that’s on Bowen’s wall—the one with Hildy, Jay, Hannah, Bowen, and the redheaded girl I now know as Evie Maguire. I glance over my shoulder at Hildy scuttling around the kitchen and meander away from the shelf toward the hallway. From the edge of the hallway, I see two doors. One leads to a bathroom and the other to the master bedroom.
As I stare into the dark bedroom, an idea slowly forms. My eyes relax, glazing over as they fixate on the corner of a yellow comforter just visible in the residual light from the kitchen. I bet there’s something interesting in that room. Maybe a few interesting things. Maybe I could take a peek and try to find them…
“All set!” Hildy calls, flipping off the kitchen light.
And that’s that. We head out the apartment door and I wait as she locks the deadbolt before following her back down the wooden staircase to the parking lot. But I make sure to look over my shoulder at the black numbers marking the edge of the building.
Snuggling into my winter coat on Hildy’s heated leather seats, I indulge in the same deep thoughts I had prior to arriving at her house. Except, this time, I have a new plan. It forms gradually, as we make the drive back out to the Garrison compound, Hildy’s cargo area filled with bulk paper products, 2-pound bags of coffee, and a cardboard box of 5-dozen eggs. And once we arrive, I help Hildy lug every single thing inside, happily lingering at her kitchen counter, waiting and watching.
Hildy reaches into her coat pocket, my eyes trained on the key ring as she fishes it out. She tosses it into the identical teak bowl that Bowen has, except hers is on the entry table near the hall closet under a rustic wooden sign with “Rhinehardt” etched across it.
“Let me know the next time you’re going. I might need to restock again,” I shake the bag of pretzels and give her a hug as I make my way across the kitchen toward the front door .
As soon as I hear the rustle of bags and Hildy open the refrigerator, I open the front door and, in one fluid motion, sweep my fingers over the teak bowl. I hook my index finger through the bottle opener key ring and tuck it into my pocket as I pull the door shut behind me.
●●●
The key to remaining anonymous is not drawing attention to oneself. You want eyes to gloss over you, unnoticed, as you blend into the landscape—hiding in plain sight.
You’d think I have experience with breaking and entering. I don’t. I just know what security guards look for and what actually looks suspicious. I help them develop their protocols, after all. This is why I park further away from my destination and I take the path behind the apartment buildings where I can enter the stairwell from the opposite side.
I walk with a purpose, utterly oblivious to those around me, or so it would seem. I use a key to unlock the door and flip the deadbolt behind me like I belong there. On a weeknight, there’s not much activity. Everyone is occupied inside their own homes, hiding from the arctic chill outside.
Marco probably wonders what I’m doing back in his home so soon, and then immediately wonders why another bowl of cat food isn’t appearing before him. Instead, I give him a scratch under the chin and take out my phone to switch on the flashlight, swiping past the latest text from Bowen in the process.
BOWEN (5:48PM): Gonna be late…Riley’s truck is being weird…following him home
Perfect. But I don’t tell him that.
ME (5:48PM): No problem! Hope it’s nothing serious…or expensive…
BOWEN (5:49PM): I know I said I’d make dinner
ME (5:49PM): Seriously, don’t worry. I need to run out to CVS. I’m out of tampons…
BOWEN (5:50PM): I thought you didn’t start til next week
Find me another man so attentive to my menstrual cycle.
ME (5:50PM): Good thing I noticed tonight, huh ?
BOWEN (5:51PM): Touche...want me to pick something up on the way home?
Just enough time for a split-second decision. Who am I? This is so unlike me.
I make my way down that dark hallway and through the open door into Hannah’s bedroom. Just like she did at my house. And, just like every hotel room I check into, I begin my search on the right side of the door. Scanning the walls, opening drawers, checking under the bed…
Hannah’s clean and organized, which makes the process much easier. Once I come to the walk-in closet, I pause and rolled my eyes. I probably should’ve started here to begin with. And I would’ve been right, because after scanning the shelves, racks, and floor with my phone’s beam of light, I spy two plastic storage totes stacked neatly in the corner beneath a row of sweaters on hangers. The top one is clear, filled with extra shoes. But the bottom one is an opaque purple tote. I pop the lid and scan the contents inside.
Sweaters. Lots of sweaters.
I gently flip up each one, working my way to the bottom, until I find what I’m looking for. Part of me doesn’t actually think I’ll find anything, so when I do, it catches me off-guard.
My grey Lake George hoodie with Navy-blue block letters is neatly folded at the very bottom of the stack of sweaters—my grey Lake George hoodie I didn’t even know was missing. Not only that, but when I lift the hoodie, my missing earrings with the gold stars in them are laying in the corner of the tote.
Not just a creep, but a thief, too.
Before I can reach for them, a pop and a creak cut through the air and immediately break my concentration. My heart almost stops and I freeze in terror.
I hear the jingle of Marco’s collar and a high-pitched croon as Hannah greets him at the door. Did Hildy say when Hannah was supposed to get home? I didn’t care enough to ask. It doesn’t matter, though, because she’s here now.
A ghostly whirlwind, I place the items back at the bottom of the tote and fit the top back on, holding the latches open with my fingertips so they closed silently.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…
Rising from my crouched position, I gently replace the clear tote on top of the purple one, keeping my eyes on the closet doorway the entire time. Creeping toward the door, I glance around. There’s nowhere to hide. I stop to listen.
Hannah moves about the living room and kitchen, turning on lights and turning on the TV. I glance down at my phone, lifting it to turn it off before sliding it back into my pocket. My eyes are trained on the bedroom wall as if in a trance, my hearing taking over as my strongest sense, amplifying every sound. I can hear her, but I have no clue where she’ll go next.
The closet isn’t safe, not when Hannah’s just returned from a trip. Fortunately, I can still hear her puttering around in the kitchen, some HGTV reality show buzzing in the background. I slowly lean out of the closet, peering around the corner. Then, something catches my eye. On the dresser, directly to the right of the closet, at eye level, is a tube of lipstick.
My tube of lipstick.
The black tube of Maple Sun with the gold band is standing on end next to two bottles of perfume, like it belonged there all along.
My eyes dart from the dresser, to the hallway, to the bed, and back to the lipstick.
Another split-second decision.
I snatch the lipstick off the dresser and lunge toward the far side of the bed, falling to my hands and knees between the bed and the wall. Collapsing to my stomach, I shimmy under the bed, taking refuge alongside a lone sock that looks as though it hasn’t been missed in months. Making myself as thin as possible, I peer beneath the bed skirt, relieved to have bought some time.
But I’m still trapped under Hannah’s bed. I can’t stay here much longer, lest I be discovered and set off a horrifying chain of events. And besides that, I have to get home. If I can’t escape for a long time, dealing with that explanation will be just as awkward.
Feeling the vibrations of Hannah’s footsteps coming down the hall, I take a breath and freeze. The shadows of her feet appear on the carpet and stop at the edge of the bed as she switches on the bedside lamp, letting the warm glow flood the room. Can she hear my heartbeat? It sounds like someone is pounding on the door. I flinch as I feel the mattress and bed frame shift above me with her body weight.
Are you kidding me?
She can’t be going to bed, at least not this minute. I wait and listen.
“Hey.”
A bolt of terror shoots through my heart and, for an instant, I truly think Hannah’s talking to me, calling me out in the creepiest way possible because she is a total creep. Then I hear her speak again.
“Just got home…”
Thank God, she’s on the phone. I could die of relief right here. But I still need to get out of here—immediately.
“I thought I’d be back earlier, but I stayed for dinner, so I didn’t leave until four…Good, missed talking to you…What are you doing?”
I raise an eyebrow. Maybe she patched up things with her stale boy toy, after all.
“You could stop by… ”
No, you could not stop by. Because there’s another creepy woman in this apartment who’s hiding under the bed and needs to get the fuck out of here!
What’s more, if Hannah’s back together with her boyfriend and he comes over and I have to covertly witness anything that follows, I’ll absolutely vomit and then die.
I glare at the box spring creaking above me.
Hannah sighs, “Fine, guess I’ll just see you at Hildy’s…”
Hannah’s silent for a good minute or so. I can hear the deep, muffled, male voice on the other end of the call, but not enough to make out any words. All I know is that he has a lot to say.
“What? I have no idea,” Hannah chuckles. “For real…Yeah, that’s weird…Well, you don’t throw anything away. I should know…”
A moment later, her laughter fades and she goes silent. The distant voice on her phone continues to speak and the box spring creaks as Hannah shifts her weight. My eyes dart to the edge of the bed skirt as her feet appear on the carpet.
“That’s not what I meant,” she scoffs.
The voice keeps going, speaking faster, and even from my cramped hiding place, I can tell the tone of the conversation has changed, and not in a good way.
“But—”
The voice cuts her off.
“I told you, I don’t know. Why are you—”
Whoever she’s talking to isn’t having any of it. Listening intently, all I can pick up are intermittent exhales of frustration, false starts, and uncomfortable shifts on the mattress. A set of tiny feet appear next to Hannah’s as Marco sniffs the carpet and rubs his cheek against her calf.
“I have always been there for you!” Hannah explodes, making me flinch and Marco cower.
“I drop everything to help you,” Hannah’s voice switches from angry to frantic, almost apologetic. “You know I wouldn’t do that. I care about you more than anyone and—”
He cuts her off again. She’s pouring her soul out to this guy, and for what I don’t understand. At the wedding, she acted like she could take him or leave him. Marco pokes his nose beneath the bed skirt. My eyes dart to him, petrified, as he sniffs along the carpet and then looks right at me.
He meows.
I clenched my jaw, my heart pounding against my ribcage, panic building with each twitch of Marco’s cute little whiskers.
“No, don’t—”
Marco crouches down and inches further under the bed skirt, peering at me with curiosity. He takes two steps toward me.
“Hello? ”
I hold my breath, my eyes darting between Marco and the underside of the box spring. Hannah goes silent and the voice on the other end of the phone is gone. Something hits the wall with a thud, making my muscles seize in terror. Although startled, I remain motionless, not moving a muscle as Hannah’s phone hits the carpet and bounces into the middle of the floor.
I’m dead. I’m so dead. Why is everything ending up on the floor right here?
Hannah doesn’t move right away. Instead, she takes a series of deep breaths, punctuated by sporadic, muted gasps. A small part of me feels sorry for her, sniveling above me on her bed, having been spurned by her prince in tin foil.
But my sympathy is short-lived. This is also the woman who flirts with my fiancé, went through my house, and stole my shit. She can go to hell. I don’t care about her relationship problems, I just need to figure out how to get out of here before something humiliating happens.
After a few moments, the mattress shifts again and Hannah stands up. I watch her bare feet pace back and forth a few times. Marco is still crouched mere feet from me, halfway under the bed.
My entire body goes rigid as Hannah stoops down and reaches under the bed to take hold of Marco around his midsection. She pulls him out and lifts him up, cooing some gibberish kitten-talk to him.
I’m contemplating throwing up or having a heart attack when I realize Hannah is carrying Marco out of the room, leaving her phone lying on the floor. I listen to her footsteps move down the hall toward the kitchen, where the refrigerator opens, closes, and the pop of a carbonated can echoes through the hallway. Her sparkly crimson painted toes trudge back across the carpet, pausing to pick up her phone, and then continue to the bathroom on the other side of the bed.
I wait, ready to take my opportunity, listening as water begins gushing from the bathtub faucet. The flow pauses for a few seconds when Hannah pulls the lever for the shower. Then I hear water spray out of the showerhead. Still, I remain perfectly still, waiting for the right sound.
There it is.
As soon as I hear the intermittent splashes of water being squeezed out of hair onto the bottom of the tub, I scurry out from under the bed, the lipstick tube still clutched in my fist. It’s probably melted by now. I leap from the room and tear through the apartment on tip-toes as silently as I can. I unlock the door and immediately slow to a normal pace as I step into the arctic blast outside. Making sure to re-lock the doorknob, I smoothly and silently shut the door.
Moments later, I’m nonchalantly floating down the stairs and out to the sidewalk behind the building. Adrenaline still pumping, I keep my guard up until I roll out of the parking lot and I’m safely back on the road as if I was never there .
When I get home, my nerves are thoroughly shot. Bowen is unloading sub sandwiches and bags of chips onto the table.
“Get everything you needed?” he asks, blithely unaware of my dramatic getaway.
I glance down at the plastic CVS bag dangling from my fingers, one box of tampons tucked inside. I nearly forgot to stop at the drugstore in the wake of my perilous escape.
“Yeah, I did,” I call as I saunter down the hall to the bedroom to deposit the box under the sink.
Once in the bathroom, I reach into my jeans pocket and pull out the black and gold lipstick tube. I pop the top and examine the reddish-brown wedge at the top of the metal tube. Rotating it between my fingers, I wonder if Hannah had the audacity to use it or if she just coveted it like a total creep.
I look in the mirror and slide the lipstick across my bottom lip and then my top. I cock my head, studying myself, and press my lips together. Arching my brow, I mouth to my reflection.
Fuck you, bitch.