“I told you,” Eric mutters to Dave, “they’re redundant systems. We could’ve just sent them the backup log for the entire zone…”
“Ah!” Dave exclaims, “Very good. Casey got the initial call from their people, so she’s been running around tracking down all the information. When she talked to Nate, he said he’d also had problems with running reports for other areas. So, here we are.”
“I—I’m very sorry,” I stammer, “that’s so embarrassing.” Maybe if I act humiliated enough, Dave will just want me out of his office, as if much acting is required, “Please don’t fire me.”
Dave rolls his eyes and swivels back around to his computer, “Brett, have I fired anyone today?”
“I don’t know...”
“No,” Dave shoots me an annoyed look, “I haven’t. So why would I start with you?”
Great, now I can go back to my office and die of a heart attack.
“Thank you,” I slowly rise from my chair, “I’ll do it right now.”
Thank God I clam up during stressful situations instead of not being able to shut up. I practically run back to my office with tunnel vision, hyper-focused on the task at hand until I press Send and shoot off an email with five attachments, seven recipients, and two paragraphs of way more information and detail than anyone probably wants.
After saving my job and avoiding devastating humiliation, I sit back in my chair and notice the crinkled white paper sticking out of the top of my bag. I reach down and pluck it out, unfolding it to take another look at 18-year-old Colson glaring menacingly at the camera.
If he were to be arrested for anything, I guess this would be it.
Maybe he just got better at his craft…
All the same, his voice keeps repeating the same words over and over in my head.
“Maybe you should ask Bowen what he knows about me.”
But I can’t have this conversation over text. I need to calm down, gather myself, and think about what I’m going to say. I’ll ask Bowen about him later tonight, after I get home.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Brett
One Year Ago
Wind in my face and sweat dripping from every pore should be soothing, especially when the air starts to chill as evening approaches. I even ride this particular loop a second time, adding 45 minutes to my total time. But I can’t concentrate. No matter how hard I push or how high my heartrate gets, I can’t quell the anxiety.
My mind is still reeling from my last conversation with Colson.
Who was Colson stalking and why? He obviously knows Bowen, and presumably Bowen knows him. He painted Emily’s name across the wall and shredded a photo from high school. Everyone except Evie…
None of it makes sense. Dire Ridge is 45 minutes from Canaan, and neither Colson or Bowen have ever given any indication that they know anyone in either place.
I shift my Tahoe into park and sit for a moment, gazing out the windshield at the blue sky over the roof, stars beginning to come into view. Even though I took my time on the bike ride and driving home, Bowen’s truck is still gone, and I don’t want to go into an empty house. Technically, I won’t be alone, but Waylon doesn’t care about my problems unless it means I’ll lay down on the floor next to him and scratch his head, which isn’t totally out of the question.
I wish Bowen was here. I wish his headlights would flood through my windows and he’d pull up next to me, we’d go inside, and I can spend the rest of the evening on the sofa with him, laying on his chest with one leg slung over his hip, just like on any other night—before my house turned into a scene from one of the horrors on my bookshelf.
I pick up my phone and shoot off a text to Bowen.
ME (5:54PM): Please say you’re on your way home.
I wait in the driver’s seat, my elbow on the edge of the open window, listening to the crickets and tree frogs begin their twilight chorus. I breathe in the sweet, dried grass smell and stare at my phone, waiting impatiently. Finally, it vibrates in response.
BOWEN (5:56PM): Why? Excited to see me?
I crack a smile, relieved that Bowen sounds like himself despite the events of last night.
ME (5:56PM): Very much. ETA?
BOWEN (5:57PM): En route. What are you doing?
ME (5:58PM): Finished a bike ride and sitting in the driveway. Probably take a shower. How far away?
BOWEN (5:58PM): Wait for me
ME (5:58PM): Hurryyyyyyyyyyy
My mood adequately improved, I finally work up enough motivation to exit the car and make my way to the house. I leave my bike strapped to the hatch since the weather is supposed to be nice again tomorrow.
As expected, as soon as I flip the light switch inside the door, I hear the jingle of Waylon’s tags. He lumbers over to the foyer and gives a welcoming sniff before returning to his bed in the living room. I slip off my sneakers, drop my work tote next to the door, and carry my duffel bag down the hallway toward the bedroom.
When I step through the bedroom door, I notice it’s darker than usual, especially for the hour. I drop my bag against the wall and take a few steps inside, immediately noticing the blackout curtains are drawn. I stand a few feet from the edge of the bed, staring at the windows. To anyone else, it would be nothing. But in a house with two people who have very specific routines and idiosyncrasies, the drawn curtains mean something.
They should still be open.
A jolt of adrenaline ripples from my chest down to my stomach, radiating in a tingle through my limbs. The hair on the back of my neck stands up.
Intuition…
