“Tell me what?” she’s irritated, but still curious.
Blonde top knot girl brings my drink to the counter and sets it down with a smile before racing back to the coffee trenches. I immediately approach the counter to grab the drink and she doesn’t follow. She remains frozen in place until I turn around and take two strides back to her. This time, I’m standing at her shoulder, glaring down at her.
“He knows I’m here,” the low rumble of my voice drains the color from her face, “he’s even seen me. And he knows I’m coming for him.”
A sickening expression washes over her face and it absolutely warms my heart. I hope she’s terrified. She should be. Because she knows she can’t tattle on me for implications and nasty tones—not this time. We’re not kids anymore, and time hasn’t healed anything. The wounds are still as fresh as ever, and I’m out for fucking blood, and she knows it.
“Why can’t you just leave us alone?” her tone is both loathsome and desperate.
When I hear her cup being set down, I step forward and sweep it off the counter.
“I’ll leave you alone when I see your brother put away, whether it’s in prison or in the ground,” closing the space between us again, I lean down and lower my voice to a growl, “because you know what he did.”
I linger for a moment, just to fuck with her, before I brush past her shoulder. In one fluid motion, I spike her grande iced white mocha into the trash can with a thud.
“Tell him hello for me,” I call over my shoulder as I saunter off to the automatic glass doors, sipping my heart attack in a cup as I go.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Brett
One Year Ago
“WAYLON!” I’ve been hollering his name off the back deck for a good 10 minutes and there’s still no sign of him.
It’s finally dark, and normally, I’d be basking in the warm night air and the chorus of crickets and tree frogs coming from the woods, but right now all I can think about is what Bowen told me about Waylon’s routine.
He hates it, but he has to stay in at night now. He’s too old and if some stray dogs or coyotes surround him, he’s done. If he doesn’t come when you call, I’ll go get him. But if I’m not here, you have to go.
Bowen’s still not home, and it’s already been 10 minutes. Waylon isn’t coming back on his own.
Fuck.
I love it out here at night—the air, the sounds, and the stars…but I don’t love the idea of trudging aimlessly through the dark. The tree line is a formidable black wall that starts where the reach of the motion sensor light next to the back door ends.
I let out an exasperated sigh when, suddenly, I hear it. It’s faint at first, but the sound slowly grows to a cacophony of yips that drowns out all other night noises. It goes on for about 20 seconds, sending shivers down my spine. I listen for gunfire from the boys, which never comes. And then I listen in horror for the sound of Waylon’s yelps and howls, but it also never comes. It’s my worst fucking nightmare—at least right this minute. Because Waylon’s still gone. He’s still out there with a pack of coyotes.
Shit, shit, shit…
I don’t even go inside to grab shoes before bounding down the stairs into the yard. The grass feels cool under my feet as I run, but the air is still warm from the heat of the day. I sprint across the yard to the narrow access path worn down to two dirt tire tracks. I have no idea where to even start looking, but this path is the only way I can walk into the woods without shredding my feet. I step into the tree line and start calling Waylon’s name again.
It occurs to me that he’s not the only animal that can hear me. I try to focus and remind myself that coyotes don’t like people and would rather flee than engage with a human. But the further I walk into the trees, all I can think about are random stories I’ve heard about coyotes attacking humans. A few years ago, a coyote walked right out onto I-70 and attacked a police officer during road construction. They even tazed it, but it just kept coming. And wasn’t there a girl in Canada that was killed by a pack of coyotes in a park?
I realize I don’t live in Canada, where there are real predators. But some of the coyotes here in Ohio are big. I’ve seen them. They aren’t supposed to be big, but they look like large dogs with bushy tails. And, I swear to God, if I look over and see a pair of yellow eyes—or multiple pairs of yellow eyes—watching me from the trees, I’ll absolutely die. Then they can drag my body off and consume it wherever the hell coyotes hang out. Bowen won’t have to worry about Colson murdering me because I’ll have become part of the local food chain in his backyard.
God, shut up about the coyotes and find Waylon.
I’ve walked this path before, but in the dark, everything looks different and I don’t recognize anything. Snaps and cracks echo in the distance and leaves shuffle just off the path, drawing my attention so many directions I don’t know where to focus. I remind myself there are squirrels, chipmunks, foxes, raccoons, possums, and deer, all skittering through the brush because this is when the forest comes alive.
There are also coyotes…
I try to listen for the jingle of Waylon’s collar, if for no other reason than to anticipate when he gets closer so I don’t think a giant, mutant wolf-coyote is running at me to take me down. At least my eyes are starting to adjust in the darkness. I remember Bowen telling me it’s better not to use a flashlight because you can see further when your eyes finally adjust.
The moon is bright, shining through gaps in the canopy, but all the trees still look like pitch black statues watching me from all sides. I keep my head on a swivel, trying to ignore the human-like shadows the trees cast and focus on finding Waylon. Until one of the trees has a head. And arms.
My breath catches and a painfully terrifying jolt shoots through my chest as I let out something between a curse and a yelp and whip around on my heels. My heart feels like it’s about to burst and I don’t even feel the rocks and twigs jabbing the soles of my feet as I tear back down the path.
Something grabs my arm and jerks me back around. I let out a scream as two arms wrap around my chest and squeeze my shoulders with a vise grip. I feel someone against my head and the rush of a breath against my cheek.
“The fuck are you doing out here without any clothes on?” a deep voice reverberates in my ear.
I stop struggling and try to look over my shoulder, “Bowen?” I hiss.
He loosens his grip on me and straightens up. I spin around to see him laughing and brushing his hair out of his face. He’s changed out of the khaki pants and black t-shirt he was wearing when he left for paintball and, now, he’s wearing a pair of jeans and a grey undershirt with a dark smear across the chest. I scrunch up my nose. I hope it’s not coyote blood, but it’s probably coyote blood.
“I was looking for Waylon,” my chest heaves as I catch my breath, “he ran into the woods and wouldn’t come back when I called.”
Bowen looks over his shoulder and nods down the path, “He came and found me, he’s in the cab.”
“God…” I exhale, relief washing over me, then tilt my head back, hands on my hips, and let out an exasperated sigh into the treetops.
“You alright?” Bowen chuckles.
“I was calling for him for the longest time. Then I heard the coyotes go off and I freaked out and ran out here to look for him.”
Bowen’s voice softens, “You ran out here just to find him?”
“Of course!” I exclaim, “You said he could be eaten by stray dogs or coyotes.”
