But she probably knew this would be bad since I called her this morning, frantic, asking if she could see me today. It’s 7:00 in the evening—afterhours—but she let me come anyway.
“I had a nightmare last night,” I’m out of breath only after six words, “and it was the worst one yet.”
“Can you tell me about it?”
“I was trapped, running around, trying to find a way out. I was screaming, but no sound was coming out, like I was on mute. But I was screaming in real life,” I fidget with the hem of my sleeve, “and when I woke up, I was on the floor and he was holding me down, talking to me and trying to bring me back.” Judy can’t see the bandages up and down my arms. “And then I started freaking out all over again because there was blood everywhere—on my hands, on the floor, on the walls, on him…”
“Where did the blood come from?”
“Me,” I pause to take a deep breath, “because I smashed the window with the side table…trying to escape that room again.”
●●●
At least four times a week, I take my bike to one of the trailheads and disappear by myself for an hour or so. It’s part of my treatment—my part of my treatment. I immerse myself in the dirt and rocks, ride fast, fight the terrain, and get a little bit stronger every time. Maybe I come back bloody, maybe I don’t, but it’s fewer and farther between, now.
Today, I only bring back a thin film of dust and a head of hair soaked in sweat. After loading my neon yellow bike onto its rack, I unlock the driver’s side door and tug it open, but not before confirming it’s still locked when I return. Some routines aren’t so easy to shake, like glancing around the entire cabin and making sure nothing is missing—and nothing has appeared—since I left.
As soon as I pull onto the road, a call rings over the Bluetooth of my 4Runner.
I tap the dashboard screen as soon as I see the caller ID, “Hey, Tyler,” I call through the speakers.
“Brett!” The pitch of her voice is so high, it comes out as distorted fuzz. “Are we still on for next week?”
“Yes, absolutely! I was hoping you weren’t going to cancel.”
Tyler is insane if she thinks I’m going to miss this. Hers and Sydney’s podcast has quickly become one of my favorites, chatting about nothing but thrillers and horror. And now I’m going to be on one of their episodes. Because this is who I am now.
“No way, I’m not going to be responsible for wrecking plans,” Tyler laughs, “are you still OK with recording live?”
“Yeah, totally!” I was apprehensive at first because I’ve never been officially recorded before.
For anything public, anyway…I laugh to myself. OK, stay serious.
“It’ll be nice sitting next to someone in the studio since Sydney lives so far away,” Tyler laments, “I just confirmed the schedule with her due to the time difference. But, more importantly, have you been inundated yet?” Tyler asks, her voice hitching in excitement, “You’ve gone viral, the bookfluencers love it.”
“Yeah, I know,” I’m still not used to this kind of exposure, “it’s pretty wild.”
Tyler’s right, there are a lot of people who love my book. But there are also a lot of people who don’t. I used to think people only got fired up and talked about books they like on social media. Apparently, there are also people who devote copious amounts of time and effort to talking about books they hate.
“It’s a lot, you know?” I continue, “I’m not used to this many people liking what I have to say, or not liking it…”
“Exposure is exposure, Brett,” Tyler’s tone softens, “trust me, I completely get it. We have a lot of haters, too. I mean, just ask Sydney…” she snickers, “but we have way more fans, and that’s what matters, not some idiots with low self-esteem. What does the hubs think about it?”
God, I groan silently, just call him by his real name. And besides, we’re not even married. You know this…
“You know what he thinks about it,” I chuckle, “he’s the reason you even know who I am!”
“False! I would’ve found out on my own. But he is the reason you’ll be on our podcast before anyone else’s. He’s probably eating it up, cocky motherfucker…” she mutters.
I have to laugh at that one. She’s not wrong…
He can be a pillar of support and help me with a lot of things, but there’s not much he can do about the ugliness that sneaks through every so often, hidden between the words of affirmation brimming with kindness and excitement. Ugliness like the message that pops up this morning while I’m sifting through DMs, trying to find one I meant to respond to earlier.
mn44x.xx
you deserved all you got you cheating cunt. you should be rotting in those woods right now too.
It’s really easy to tell someone else not to worry; it’s only bots, internet trolls, basement dwellers, prudish keyboard warriors, just cowards who would crumble if they were ever forced to look me in the eye.
Maybe.
But this one is different, with its frequency, tone, and choice of words that anyone else might gloss over...
This is the one that lets me know that soon, all of them will know the truth.
Every. Last. One of them.
CHAPTER FIVE
Brett
One Year Ago
One time, I did an exercise where I wrote continuously for 10 minutes. It didn’t matter if it made sense, I just wrote whatever came to mind. Guzzling a cup of coffee, I type furiously, and from this fury pours forth a new character with dark brown eyes and jet-black hair, brooding mysteriously in the corner. Except, this time, I write continuously for an hour. Maybe he’ll be the murderer, a co-conspirator, maybe a hapless victim, or the twist I need at the very end.
Whoever he is, I can thank Bowen Garrison for the stream of consciousness spilling out onto my keyboard. But I won’t tell him that anytime soon.
By late afternoon, I’m spent. And by early evening, I’m standing in front of the mirror with my head tilted to the side, scrunching the cast of hair product out of my curls. As I do, they expand and lighten from dark copper to their normal strawberry blonde. I choose a pair of purple running shorts and a heather grey V-neck and pull them on, finishing with my Nikes. I pick up my phone to check the weather and then grab a black hoodie and tie it around my waist. I close my weather app and glance at the most recent text exchange.
