CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
Brett
One Year Ago
“These are torture tactics,” Barrett utters as she sets down the letter from Emily Fox and pours us three fingers each from a bottle of Town Branch, “do you want to go to the police?”
“What police?” I scoff, reaching for the glass of bourbon as she slides it across the island, “I don’t live here anymore, Barrett. The police here won’t take a report from me, they’ll tell me to go to Canaan, and you know I can’t do that.”
Barrett’s face falls as realization washes over her, and she slowly nods.
“I can’t imagine what he’s already told Jay, and God knows who else…” I run my hands up my face in anguish, “Bowen doesn’t get embarrassed about anything. I might as well be sitting at the dinner table telling all of them about my kinky sex life . They won’t believe a word I say against him.”
“ Shit, ” Barrett exhales in defeat, “OK, you have a point.” After a moment, a bitter scowl seeps across her face and she shakes her head, “God, he’s such a fucking fraud.”
“What do you mean?”
“You probably don’t notice because you’re not on them that much, but he and his sister blow up social media with nothing but gushy stuff about you. And then he goes and does this… ” Barrett takes a swig of bourbon, “if that’s all people see and his family is the law, I don’t blame you for not wanting to report him. Who’s going to believe you?”
I tip my glass back with a shaky hand, letting the burn work its way down my throat and into my gut. Barrett’s phone sits next to mine, each a mirror image of the other just minutes before, except mine was conveniently missing more than a few of Barrett and Bowen’s texts to one another .
“Have you heard from Bowen since last night?” she asks.
I pause and stare at my phone, devoid of new texts or voicemails, “No.” I don’t know whether to be relieved or worried.
“God,” Barrett rolls her eyes, “and he tried to make it seem like Colson murdered his stepsister.”
“Colson didn’t,” I shake my head adamantly, “Colson would never have done that. And what Colson said about Bowen…” I trail off, still unable to wrap my mind around Colson’s story compared to Bowen’s recounting of events all those years ago, “I know none of us are who we used to be in high school, but I never would’ve believed that Bowen was like that.”
“Until now,” Barrett mutters, “after you find out his last two relationships include a dead girl and a missing fiancée.”
I take another sip of my bourbon to stave off the chill running up my back, “But I still don’t know why Bowen would tell you about Colson’s arrest and then act like you made a pass at him.”
Barrett shrugs, “Chaos? Colson’s a murderer, I’m a slut, and as long as you believe one of those things, it’s one less person in his way? I think he just wanted to cover all his bases,” she lowers her eyes to the floor in disgust, “and maybe get something out of it if he could. But you still have a job, right?”
“Apparently. I guess Colson gave Dave enough information that he stopped the off-boarding process and told me to take a few days to sort everything out. I mean, how fucking creepy is that—” I scowl into my glass, “sending a fake resignation letter to my boss…”
“It’s more than creepy, Brett,” Barrett looks at me gravely, “it would appear that Bowen never meant for you to leave that house.”
Her words hit me like a smack in the face, but I know she’s right. And just as I open my mouth to tell her so, the doorbell rings. We both freeze, staring at one another. Seconds later, there are three heavy knocks on the door. All I can hear is my pulse against my eardrums and the dull rush behind it as a wave of adrenaline surges through my veins.
Barrett slides off her chair and her eyes dart to the ceiling, “Upstairs,” she whispers, “follow me, and don’t make a sound.”
Creeping out of the kitchen and down the hallway, we have to go straight toward the front door to get to the stairs. Both of us curse under our breath, forgetting that the curtains on the front window are wide open, and the porch is just to the right of it. My stomach drops when I see a black F250 sitting at the curb right out front. As soon as we get to the staircase, we both shoot up the stairs, two at a time.
Barrett leads me into the bedroom on the front of the house, which sits right above the garage. It’s lined with windows, with one catty-corner to the gable above the front porch.
She points to the wall adjacent to the window, “Sit down and don’t say anything,” she whispers .
I sink down onto the carpet, my knees drawn up to my chest as she raises the blinds and unlocks the window, craning her neck to peer down onto the porch.
“Son of a bitch … ” Barrett spouts as she hoists the window open, followed by the screen. “What do you want, Bowen?” she calls down a few seconds later.
When I hear his voice, I squeeze the tops of my knees and my breath goes shallow.
“Is Brett here?” he asks in his normal, everyday tone.
“Why would she be here?” Barrett’s voice is thick with contempt, “Did you forget that she stopped speaking to me after what you said?”
Bowen sighs in exasperation. Instead of a response, an awkward silence hangs between them. I also notice he doesn’t question why she’s hanging out the second story window to talk to him instead of answering the door.
Bowen’s tone sharpens and his voice gets louder, “Because if she’s not, then something really bad might’ve happened to her.”
Barrett doesn’t miss a beat, “Like what?”
“She was still at the house when I left for work this morning, and when I came home, she was gone, the house was wrecked, windows broken, and her boss said she resigned. And I know Colson’s already been in my house once.”
My blood goes cold as it becomes clear that Bowen has already spun the narrative.
“Well, you know how trauma bonds go, they’re really hard to break.” Barrett’s words drip with venom, casting a shadow over Bowen as thick as a storm cloud.
“Is she in there with you?” he says with a warning edge.
The room suddenly feels much smaller and the steel front door downstairs might as well be made of straw.
“Do you see her car anywhere around here?” Barrett snaps.
Bowen hesitates, considering his next move, “Is this because I didn’t fuck you when you came downstairs naked last week? You won’t even help me find your best friend, who might be in real danger, because you’re salty with me?”
He’s smart, jumping from story to story, covering every possible scenario to see what might yield the best information. But Barrett doesn’t embarrass easily, and he underestimates the amount of bullshit she encounters every single day.
“Get out of here, Bowen,” Barrett sighs, “you’re not in Canaan. I don’t think the cops here care about who your family is.”
He knows better than to say anymore. He doesn’t control the narrative on Hibernia. A thick silence descends until I finally hear his truck start and the engine roar as he speeds away from the house. As soon as she’s satisfied that he’s gone, Barrett shuts the window but pauses, tapping her finger against the frame .
Finally, she knits her brow and looks down at me, “Why would he come here? As far as he knows, you’re still not speaking to me.”
I let my head collapse back against the wall with a thud, “Going through all my friends?” I guess with an exhausted shrug.
Barrett grabs her phone out of her back pocket and begins typing furiously. A few seconds later, my phone vibrates with a text. It’s a text from Barrett to our group chat with Katie and Emma.
BARRETT (7:24PM): Katie and Emma—has Bowen tried to contact you all today?
EMMA (7:28PM): Nope, why?
KATIE (7:31PM): No
BARRETT (7:33PM): I’ll fill you in later, but PLEASE let me know if he does.
“If he does talk to them, it’s better if they don’t know you’re here,” she says as she replaces her phone in her pocket.
I don’t like the tone in Barrett’s voice, and any sense of relief I gained throughout the day immediately disintegrated the instant her doorbell echoed through the house. She hesitates for another minute, her eyes wandering around the room while she ponders.
“I think he’s still tracking you,” she murmurs.
“How?” I feel the panic rise again, “Dallas found the app on my phone and deleted it.”
“I don’t know,” the troubled look on her face only intensifies as she peeks out the window again, “get out every single thing you brought with you. We have to check everything.”
Half an hour later, the contents of my duffel bag are spread across the living room; clothes, shoes, makeup, bottles haphazardly tossed together in a casserole of desperation.
What would you grab if your house was on fire? What would you grab before breaking a window and escaping the room your fiancé locked you in?
The contents of my work tote lay nearby. Barrett motions to me and I rise from the floor and follow her through the laundry room to the garage door. When she opens it, my Tahoe is the only vehicle parked in the garage, a giant white elephant in the middle of the room.
“Start on the inside,” Barrett squeezes between the front bumper and the wall, “I’ll check out here.”
Sitting in the driver’s seat, I don’t even know where to start. I don’t know how to search and deconstruct a vehicle. Running my fingers over every nook and cranny, I squeeze my fingertips between each seam, wondering if something will pop loose if I pull it hard enough.
I start chuckling to myself as I feel along the underside of the seats; this is the perfect job for Colson. I finally have the perfect job for him and he’s not even here. Then again… maybe he is. Who’s to say Colson’s not hanging out a few doors down, watching the house from his blue STI? He’s the only other person who knows I’m here. Maybe he was even here when Bowen stopped by. Either way, I should probably tell him what’s going on.
What—is he your keeper now?
“ Ah! ” a shriek echoes through the garage and I jerk up, smashing my head against the steering wheel, “I got you, motherfucker!” Barrett shouts from beneath the floorboards.
I scramble out the door and scurry around the back, where Barrett’s legs are sticking out from under the cargo area.
I crouch down as she begins scooting back out, “What? Did you find something?”
“I found it !” she squeals with excitement.
“What is it? ”
As soon as she can rise up on all fours, Barrett sticks her arm in the air in triumph. Clutched in her fist is a rectangular black box. It’s not even the size of my phone. Once she’s on her feet, she holds it flat in her palm for me to see.
“It’s a GPS, Brett!” Barrett’s still riding the high of the find, beaming at the electronic box with pride.
Meanwhile, I’m about to be sick—again.
“How—” I shake my head, stunned, “how did you know what you were looking for?”
Barrett’s face softens, “When we refer domestic abuse victims to shelters, they have to leave behind their cell phones, vehicles, and anything else their abusers might’ve put tracking devices or software in.” She glances up apologetically, “I forget it’s not common knowledge.”
I take the GPS tracker from her and turn it over in my hands.
A brand-new car, complete with a tracking device. A brand-new phone, complete with spyware. Aw, Bowen, you shouldn’t have...
A small, blue light near the end of the unit indicates it’s live. Do I turn it off? Take it somewhere? Is it better to keep it running to maintain the illusion for the time being? Is this what my decisions have been reduced to?
My back pocket begins vibrating, startling me out of my morbid dilemma.
“God, what now?” I mutter, pulling my phone out of my back pocket. I nearly drop my phone and the GPS tracker when I see Hildy’s name flashing across my screen. “ Are you kidding me? ”
“Answer it,” Barrett clips, “but don’t tell her anything. Get information. ”
I nod and turn to head back into the house, “Hello?” I answer, unable to hide my exhaustion and disdain any longer.
“Brett, hey! What’s up?” as soon as I switch to speaker phone, Hildy’s cheery voice explodes out of the mouthpiece, muffled by distortion.
“Just…hanging out,” I stroll aimlessly across the kitchen, dragging my toes along the hardwood, “what are you doing?”
“Well, if you don’t get home too late, you want to stop by the house? We had barbecue and Jay smoked, like, 9,000 ribs. They need to get eaten.”
“Yeah…” I stop short at the corner of the island and stare blankly at the stainless-steel range, “maybe…”
The clock on the range reads 8:02. It’s already kind of late, and I didn’t tell Hildy I’m not home.
She knows , I mouth to Barrett.
“Have you talked to Bowen lately?” I ask, trying to sound upbeat despite the realization that I’m a mouse being drawn into a pit of vipers.
There’s a long pause at the other end of the call, which gives me a small sense of satisfaction. Hildy’s not very good at this sort of thing, evident from the debacle at the Mexican restaurant the other day.
“Sorry, what?” she tries to buy more time.
I roll my eyes and continue my meandering path through the kitchen, “Have you talked to Bowen today?”
“No, not yet. He might’ve been over near Dayton this afternoon.”
As if you wouldn’t know. You run his schedule, Miss Director of Operations…
“And hey,” Hildy changes the subject, “I’m sorry I brought up all that stuff at dinner the other night. I should’ve asked if you wanted to talk about it first.”
I furrow my eyebrows and stare across the floor. As awkwardly as I left that restaurant, it’s odd that Hildy’s not angry with me for spilling the beans about Bowen’s engagement to Emily and Leona’s shitty response to it. Then again, maybe she can’t be angry with me right now…
“Don’t worry about it,” I reassure her, “there’s just…a lot going on right now. And…” I swirl my finger along the countertop, “I had an argument with Bowen last night.”
“What about?” Hildy’s voice hitches in concern.
When I glance at Barrett, she’s watching me with baited breath.
“A few things…,” I sigh, keeping my voice serene, “it got kind of ugly. He left before I got up, and I haven’t talked to him at all today.”
“I told you he can be an asshole,” Hildy reassures, “you can’t tell him shit sometimes, but he always figures it out and makes it right again.”
“How long does he usually stay mad? I…” God, it’s hard to think on my feet, “I guess I’ve just been avoiding him…because I don’t want things to be awkward…” All the same, I need to find out how much Hildy knows and where Bowen is .
“Honestly, Brett, I wouldn’t worry about it. Bowen loves you, and once he’s all in, he’s all in. He might’ve been angry last night, but it’s not like he’s going anywhere.”
Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.
“He’s committed,” Hildy continues, “it’s like when you all met—I told him that calling up some rando girl he saw walking by the lake was a bad idea, and now look!”
My eyes round and my face falls, “The lake?” I blink in astonishment, “ What did you say? ”
Everything goes silent. A few seconds later, there’s a shuffle on the other end of the call and a muted voice in the background. And before another lie can be spoken, I end the call.
Thanks for calling the wrong number last night…
And Hildy knew the entire time.
If I didn’t still feel like I needed to be on my guard, I’d be downing the rest of Barrett’s bottle of Town Branch right now. But, instead, I’m perched on her sofa, debating what to do next. Dragging my hand down my face in revulsion, I raise my phone and continue texting Colson.
ME (9:13PM): Bowen came here tonight.
COLSON (9:13PM): I know he did.
ME (9:14PM): How do you know he did??
COLSON (9:15PM): Because I saw it. Barrett’s smart for not opening the door.
ME (9:15PM): Don’t you have hobbies? Do you ever watch movies? Btw, we also found a GPS hidden under my car. That’s how he knew I was here.
COLSON (9:16PM): I’ll watch a movie with you tomorrow night. Because you’re coming here.
I would argue with Colson, like usual, but this time I can’t. And neither can Barrett. As angry as it makes her, she knows I can’t stay here much longer.
The GPS tracker is sitting two feet away from me on the ottoman, its blue light still blinking. We decide to leave it alone for the time being. Bowen already knows I’m here, and turning it off seems like it might exacerbate an already unstable situation. Barrett might be feisty, but she’s no match for an angry Bowen Garrison—neither of us are. And he wasn’t angry when he came to Barrett’s house looking for me .
He was hunting.
The same way he’s hunting when he finally sends me a text the next afternoon while I’m carefully packing all my stuff—what’s left of it—back into my duffel bag.
BOWEN (3:37PM): Brett, I’m so sorry for everything. I just need to hear your voice and know you’re safe. If you want, I’ll get you your own place until you’re ready to come home. I never meant to hurt you. I love you so damn much and I promise I’ll do whatever it takes to make things right with you.
I start to type, but make myself stop. I know he sees it; the three little dots moving up and down, starting, then stopping…
It goes on like that for another 15 minutes or so.
Maybe I do still love Bowen to some extent, or at least part of him. As soon as I read his text, my stomach flutters with both horror and excitement and I have the overwhelming urge to see him. But it doesn’t last, because I know exactly what will happen if I go back to that house.
As soon as he looks at me with that intoxicating smile of his, I won’t be able to remember why I was angry. He’ll wrap his muscular arms around me and lift me in the air, hold me against him, and when he kisses me, it’ll be so intense that I’ll forget everything just long enough.
But I can’t forget. I have to remember. Because I know better.
One half-assed pseudo-apology can’t erase years of true crime binges and high school modules about dating violence and dorm bathrooms plastered with numbers for sexual assault and domestic violence hotlines. It can’t erase that night. It can’t erase the new terror unlocked for another decade—maybe longer.
My blood runs so cold I feel like a porcelain doll that could shatter at any moment. There won’t be a next time because I’ll be fucking dead.
I can’t go back. Ever again.
Barrett sinks down onto the cushion next to me, glancing over my arm at Bowen’s text. She took the day off—family emergency—to make sure I’m constantly in her line of sight. I don’t know how I managed to fall asleep last night. Maybe it was sleeping in Barrett’s bed behind two locked doors. Or maybe it was pure exhaustion from cowering in terror the previous night. Eventually, the adrenaline abates and you crash. But, either way, I needed it.
“I don’t blame you for second-guessing,” she motions to my phone, “it sounds pretty good.”
“You’d think so, if any of it was true. But I know he’s lying,” I slide the phone onto the ottoman, “because Bowen’s never sorry for anything.”
“I still hate the idea of you leaving,” she shoots me a concerned glance, “and going to Colson’s. ”
“I know. But where else do I go for now that doesn’t put you or anyone else at risk? Bowen knows where you all live.” Both our gazes shift to the black box on the ottoman, lit up like a bomb waiting to detonate.
“I agree, we’re out of options. It’s just…” Barrett scoffs and looks away, “Colson fucking Lutz,” she smiles bitterly to herself.
I lean in, looming over her shoulder with a devious grin, “You could threaten him,” I waggle my eyebrows at her, “tell him if he makes one wrong move, you’ll sicc Dacia Ferguson on him.”
Barrett throws her head back in a fit of laughter, cackling up to the vaulted ceiling. A few moments later, after finally composing herself, she swipes her finger under her eye to wipe away a tear.
“OK, be honest Brett,” she clasps her hands over her knee, “do you trust Colson?”
“Yes.” The answer tumbles out of my mouth much quicker than I thought it would.
Barrett gazes at my duffel bag and work tote, packed and ready to go next to the ticking time bomb. Then she turns to me gravely, her eyes filled with trepidation.
“But should you?”