Bowen glances at me and then back up at the paint, “The door to the deck was unlocked.”
I swallow hard, looking back up at the paint on the wall.
Popping a sliding glass door isn’t difficult, sweetheart.
“All my underwear are gone,” I say flatly, resigned to the fact that there’s no way I can hide something like that.
Bowen jerks his head around, “The fuck did you just say?”
“My underwear drawer—” I clear my throat, “it’s empty.”
Then, suddenly, my eyes are drawn to the wall next to the entryway. There are four knives—steak knives from the kitchen drawer—stabbed into the drywall in a row. Beneath each one is a crudely cut out piece of paper. When I look closer, I realize they’ve all been carved out of the large frame in the middle of the photo montage next to the bookcase. The glass is smashed and only silhouettes of four people remain, their images now pinned to the wall beneath each knife.
Hildy.
Jay.
Hannah.
Bowen.
The only person remaining in the framed photo is Evie, with her vibrant red hair and bright, contagious smile.
The whole sight makes my blood run cold and I have no idea what to make of any of it. I look to Bowen for any explanation, but he’s still taking in the bizarre scene.
Finally, he looks over his shoulder at me, “Your underwear are gone?”
I nod, unable take my eyes off the knives sticking out of the wall. Without another word, Bowen returns to his backpack sitting next to the front door, tears open the zipper, and starts digging around inside. I watch with a growing sense of panic as he lifts his holster, with his gun, out of the main pocket.
“What are you doing?”
“Going to find him,” Bowen declares, tucking the holster into the back of his jeans.
“Who?” I squeak, my voice cracking.
“Lutz,” he barks from the door.
“Why?” I shriek as he reaches for the door handle.
Bowen stops abruptly and turns around, “Why?” He furrows his brow, “Because he broke into my house and stole my fiancée’s underwear like a sick fuck!”
I wave my arm frantically at the wall, “OK, but what does that have to do with all of this?”
“I don’t know, Brett,” Bowen shrugs, “since when does anything he does make sense?” then he motions to the wall above me, “I don’t even know an Emily.”
I knit my brow in confusion, “Yes, you do.” I glance up at the red paint and then back at Bowen, “Your ex-girlfriend’s name is Emily. Hildy told me about her.”
Why is he looking at me like I’m talking nonsense?
And, for the record, I know Colson came into my house and stole all of my underwear. He even returned the pair he kept all those years ago. What I don’t know is how he knows Bowen had a girlfriend named Emily, why he painted her name across the wall, shredded a photo from high school, and then stabbed knives through the wall.
Bowen’s irritation is palpable, “Do you want to talk about my ex or the fact that your fucking stalker broke into my house and stole all your underwear?”
“And what do you mean, find him?” I press, “Where would you even go?”
Bowen is unfazed, “Would you prefer I wait ‘til tomorrow when I know he’s at work with you?”
My stomach drops, “You can’t go there, I’ll get fired!”
“So?”
“Bowen,” I hiss, “You’ll get killed. If you try to get past the entrance, they’ll shoot you. And I know them, they’re bored and some of them are probably itching for a reason to fire off a few rounds!”
Batshit.
Bowen peers at me from the front door, clenching his teeth.
“Fine,” he concedes, storming back into the living room, “but if I see him anywhere near here, I’m calling Jay,” he turns the corner into the hall, calling over his shoulder, “and he can bring the coroner.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Brett
Present
“There are some things I still haven’t told you,” I glance up at Judy apprehensively, “and I don’t know if I want to go there yet.”
“That’s the beauty of this therapy,” she asserts excitedly, “you don’t even have to speak if you don’t want to. During ART, you think about all the details instead of re-hashing them and re-traumatizing yourself.”
