CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Colson
One Year Ago
8:24.
I don’t know what makes me pull up the camera feed when I do. Maybe it’s because Brett’s not in her office yet and I thought she would be by now.
I tap the orange dot indicating activity and see the timestamp, 07:02:11. Bowen opens the front door and walks outside with his backpack and a travel mug, except his truck isn’t parked in the driveway.
It wasn’t last night, either, which is odd.
He crosses the gravel and strolls down the hill toward the barn. I squint at my phone. I’ve been watching him for the better part of a year and this is the first time he’s deviated from his morning routine in any way.
I tap the next orange dot, this one with the timestamp, 08:14:32. It’s subtle, but the lower half of the window on the right side of the house detonates, the screen bursting out onto the lawn. A few seconds later, a blue duffel bag comes flying out, hits the grass, and then Brett pops her head out.
I watch with a growing sense of dread as she tumbles out of the window head first and grabs the bag, running to the driveway. But then she drops the bag next to the driver’s side door of the Tahoe and turns back, heading toward the garage.
What the hell is she doing?
She goes back inside the house and then I see her activate the camera in the living room. I skip ahead to real-time and, to my horror, a silver SUV pulls into the driveway and Hannah Bailey gets out of the car. She stops at the brick walkway and stares at the open garage door for a few moments before pivoting and going inside the garage .
I’m out the door in less than 30 seconds, sprinting across the parking lot to my car. Something happened, but I don’t know when.
I missed something. I fucking missed something.
Skidding out the front gate, I gun the engine, racing down country roads toward Canaan. I haven’t done this—driven these roads this fast—in eight years.
Try to catch me now, assholes…
It takes 18 minutes, 26 seconds to get to Brett’s house from the front gate of Wolfsson. But I don’t give a fuck about the speed limit. I’ll bring every statey, deputy, and officer in the jurisdiction to that house with me.
Every few moments, I glance at my phone snapped into its holder on the vent, the screen split by the driveway and living room feeds. My Bluetooth finally connects and I can hear talking. Brett is standing opposite Hannah, holding a cardboard box. Their voices are hushed at first, until Brett’s voice echoes through the room. Soon, Hannah’s shouting back at her.
All but drifting around the next curve, I pump the brakes and then push the STI to 70 on the next straightaway. Then I do a doubletake as Hannah leaps toward Brett, knocking the box out of her hands and grabbing her by the shoulders. A few seconds later, they’re going at each other in an all-out brawl.
“ Goddamnit! ” I roar, pounding the steering wheel and speeding down the road as fast as I can while still keeping the tires on pavement.
I’ll fucking kill that bitch when I get my hands on her.
It all happens quickly, but Brett gets the upper hand and gives Hannah a good whaling before she’s able to get away and run back out of the house. Shifting my focus to the driveway feed, I watch her throw two bags in her car and peel out of the driveway.
It’s not five minutes before I see the white Tahoe in the distance, getting bigger and bigger as it speeds toward me on the opposite side of the road. As she gets closer, I hit my horn four times, trying to get her attention. She flies past me and I hit the brakes, turning the wheel and spinning the STI around in the middle of the road. The smell of burning rubber hits my nose as I squeal after her, catching up with the Tahoe in no time. As soon as I do, I call her.
“Hello?” Brett answers, her voice cracking.
“Go to the park,” I bark into the speaker, “I’m right behind you.”
The parking lot at Black Ridge is empty when I whip into the space next to Brett’s Tahoe. I jump out of my STI and jog around to her door. When I tug on it, it’s locked at first and it takes her a few seconds to look down and find the unlock button. I jerk the door open and pause.
Brett slowly swivels in the driver’s seat, a dazed look on her face as her eyes wander for a moment before meeting mine. Her cheeks are flushed and there are thin, pink scratches across the top of her chest just below a faint bruise that’s beginning to form around her neck .
Her entire body is shaking and she stares at me for a moment before her breaths become more labored and her chin begins to tremble. I reach for her, gently grasping her waist. One hand grabs my shoulder while the other grabs the top of the steering wheel for stability. She starts fidgeting like she doesn’t know what to do.
“Hey,” I say softly, leaning closer, “look at me.”
Brett’s eyes dart to mine and she stares at me with such intensity, she looks like she might have a heart attack. Her hand flies from the steering wheel and grabs my other shoulder. Digging her nails into my skin through my shirt, she pitches forward and her mouth tics before her face contorts and she descends into a barrage of screams and sobs.
As soon as I pull her to me, she throws her arms over my shoulders and claws at my back like she’s about to be dragged away by the fucking devil himself.
“Breathe,” I murmur into her ear, “breathe for me before you pass out.”
She’s convulsing in my arms and I feel my chest tighten with rage at every one of her cries.
What the fuck happened in that house?
With an annoyed grunt, I gently peel her off of me for a few seconds while I reach across my stomach and tear the Velcro loose on my vest. Pulling it over my head, I hastily drop the entire thing on the asphalt with a clatter before grabbing her and pulling her back into my chest. As soon as the side of her face hits my shirt, her gasps slow from erratic whimpers to long, deep breaths as her body starts to calm.
“I got you,” I press my cheek to her forehead, “I promise, I got you.”
Holding her in a tight embrace, I give her a couple more minutes before I try to pry her body away from mine enough to look at her flushed cheeks and wet, swollen eyes.
“Tell me what happened,” I grab her face, making her focus on me, “baby, please tell me what happened.”
Brett takes a deep breath and everything comes pouring out in one, long stream of consciousness; how that motherfucker waited in the dark for her to come home, attacked her, threatened her, and then locked her in the bedroom.
He should thank whatever demented god he prays to that I don’t find him right now and go at his dick with a vegetable peeler. Because he better believe that if anyone’s going to fuck Brett with their gun, it’s going to be me, and she’ll ask me nicely for it and thank me afterward.
“It wasn’t you,” she wipes her tear-stained cheeks, muttering something about texts and pills before she trails off, staring down at nothing while shaking her head, “I don’t know what else, but it was him. It was all him.”
Brett can’t focus. She keeps looking around like she’s expecting Bowen to appear out of nowhere .
Finally, I take her arm and motion for her to get out of the Tahoe, “Come on,” I nod to my car, “I’m taking you for a ride.”
She turns and gingerly tugs the smaller one of the bags onto her shoulder before she locks her car and lets me put her in the front seat of mine. By the time we’re back on the road, she seems more comfortable and ready to talk.
“I found a box up in the closet,” she sniffs and rubs her nose, “it had…things in it.”
I know she found a box, but I don’t tell her that, “What kinds of things?”
Brett hesitates and then takes a deep breath, “There was a letter,” she suddenly lets out a gasp, “ The letter! I took the letter. Oh my god, I took the letter.”
I arch my brow in surprise, “You have it?”
“It’s in my bag. It’s from Emily to Bowen, and she talks about all the horrible things he did to her. There were pictures with it, pictures of her wearing my engagement ring. He gave me her ring!” Brett furrows her brow in revulsion, “Then there was a shredded shirt that was covered in dirt and, Colson, I swear it smelled like death, ” she shakes her head, “and…” Brett hesitates and then her eyes go wide, “Oh, god, the dog and the fucking arm! Jay said Waylon…” she slaps her hand over her mouth with a pained groan and stares out the window.
Dog? Arm? Now she’s really not making any sense.
Brett runs her hand down her face, “Colson,” she cringes and then takes a breath to compose herself, “he has the news article that talks about how you found Evie in the woods. Evie’s your stepsister. She’s the sister you told me about. ”
I grit my teeth, staring at the road ahead, “Of course he does,” I drone. Bowen probably read it frequently after it happened. Maybe now he only reads it and reminisces on special occasions. I clear my throat, “anything else?”
“Yes,” Brett’s voice changes, suddenly deeper and more serious, “I—” she inhales slowly through clenched teeth and blows it out, her mouth scrunching into a grimace, “I found her hair. ”
When I turn to her, this time she’s the one staring straight ahead, “Whose hair?” I deadpan.
Brett swallows hard, “ Evie’s hair. He kept her hair…” she rasps in abject horror, “it was in a bag, still braided. I even touched it. I shouldn’t have left it behind. Hannah probably took it and—” she sighs in defeat, “I should’ve fought harder…”
I vehemently shake my head at her unfounded guilt. Brett uttering those words makes my skin crawl. The idea of her finding Evie’s hacked-off hair and then taking the time to stuff it into her pants as she runs for her life is enough to make me sick. I press my mouth together, keeping my own emotions in check as I gun the engine south along the edge of the park .
“Bowen even told me about it,” she continues, “he told me how Evie died, how she was shot and beaten and raped and strangled and someone cut off her hair and then slashed her up.” Brett shakes her head with disgust, “Then Hildy acted like she didn’t know.”
“It’s because no one else did know,” I say slowly, “the only people who know any of that are Evie’s parents, my mom, me...” I cast her an ominous look, “and the Canaan Police Department.”
Brett goes quiet, fidgeting with the ends of her hair, “Why didn’t you say anything?” She finally turns to me, “Why didn’t you just tell me about Evie?”
“Because if I tried to tell you right off the bat that Bowen murdered Evie, you wouldn’t have believed a word of it.”
“So, instead you stayed quiet and—” she cuts herself off and looks away.
“He took it easy on you,” I say harshly, “even if I told you and you believed me, do you think if you asked him about it that he would’ve let you live out the night?”
Brett jerks her head up, “Then tell me now,” she snaps, “what the hell is going on?”
Slowing down over the next hill, I catch sight of a pull-off just through the trees. I veer off and whip into the dirt clearing and kill the engine.
Now’s as good a time as any.
I was going to do this anyway. I was planning on telling Brett everything, but Bowen jumped the gun with one of his tantrums—like usual.
I turn to Brett, who’s stare is so intense it threatens to swallow me whole, waiting for an explanation. At some point in the last few minutes, the spark returned and she looks more like herself. Even now, during all this chaos, I have to stop and take her in.
Suddenly, I pause, my eyes trained on the waist of her jeans. Slowly, I reach over with my thumb and forefinger. Brett looks down to see me pinch something between my fingers and gently pull it away from her waist. When I hold it up in front of her at just the right angle, her mouth falls open in shock.
It’s a long, straight, red hair—a much deeper red than Brett’s strawberry blonde ringlets. And it was caught in the button of her jeans.
With my other hand, I reach past her to open the glove box and grab the plastic bag that holds the extra attachments and charge cords for my cell phone mount. I dump the contents into the center console and then carefully drop the hair—Evie’s hair—into the bag, pinching the top and running my fingers across the zip lock.
I set the bag down in my lap and unclip my phone from its mount, “Before I tell you anything, you have to do something for me.”
Brett glances at the bag and then up at me, “What?”
“I’m so sorry, baby,” I reach over and weave my fingers into hers, lifting her hand to my lips, “I don’t want to ask you for this, but I have to,” I say, kissing the top of her hand .
The look she gives me tells me she’ll do what I ask. Because we can speak in silence through subtle movements of the eye and long, drawn out stares. She knows I love her more than anything in this world and, whether or not she’s still afraid of me and what I may or may not do, she also knows I’ll destroy anyone who tries to hurt her.
I release her hand and pick up my phone, tapping the camera icon and switching it to video mode, “Hold up your phone with the date and time on it,” I tap the red record button, “and tell me exactly what happened—from the beginning.”