I will never be a Garrison, because becoming one means a fate worse than death.
You need to leave me alone. Leave me alone and do not ever contact me again. If I hear from you one more time, I’m going straight to a judge for a restraining order. I know I can’t do it in Canaan, where your family’s name is above the law. But I can do it in Hellbranch. I decided to contact Tyler after so long and make things right with her. It turns out I still have people too, and you and your family’s corruption can’t reach me here.
This letter is more than you deserve and probably serves more as an effort to seek closure for myself. And to add insult to injury, I have nothing to my name except what I could grab when I left. I had to leave most everything I own, which includes all my books. You used to tell me how cool it was that I liked hard copies of books instead of electronic ones. Was it because you knew it would be harder for me to take them with me when I had to choose whether to run or die in your house?
Maybe you can read my books on nights when you can’t sleep. You should get through them pretty quickly because I don’t know how you CAN sleep at night.
Maybe you’ll find yourself in them, Bowen, a predator who lies in wait, watching and learning how to draw your prey in. And by the time they realize it, you’ve already drained the life out of them, making them so weak that they can’t fight back. You’re a narcissist, a sociopath, a monster with no emotions, no heart, and no soul.
I hope you rot in hell.
Emily
CHAPTER SIXTY
Brett
One Year Ago
The silence in the house is deafening. Emily’s words are deafening.
“Maybe you can read my books on nights when you can’t sleep.”
I lift my eyes and scan the bookshelf across from me, filled with not only my books, but ones that were here before I arrived. Not Hildy’s books, but Emily’s, retained and carefully curated props in a house of cards.
Worked on you, didn’t it? Bowen’s words echo in my mind.
I carefully fold the letter and gently replace it in the envelope like it’s a bomb. I wonder if Hildy would still be so pissed off about the whole situation if she knew about the second page of this letter. Reading Emily’s words feels like she’s describing my own problems with uncanny accuracy…
Tucking the letter back inside the envelope, I pull out the two photos. One is a picture of Bowen and Emily in Hildy’s backyard. Emily is sitting on the tailgate of Bowen’s truck and he’s standing in front of her between her legs. She wraps her arms around his shoulders while he turns and kisses her cheek. I flip to the next one and, instantly, the air feels like it’s been sucked out of the room.
It's a selfie. Emily is sitting on Bowen’s lap, his chin resting on her shoulder while she beams at the camera and holds up her hand. Her fingers are splayed out, drawing attention to one particular accessory. On her finger is a cushion teal sapphire with pave set diamonds along the gold band.
The same ring. My ring.
I look down at my finger and my stomach drops. Feeling sicker the longer I stare at it, I grab the band and tug at the ring, ripping it from my finger. Rising from the floor, I make my way to the kitchen island and drop the ring on the counter, biting back more tears that I thought ran out hours ago. Turning away from yet another proverbial stab in the heart, I slide the photos—which probably came from a couple of the frames on this wall—back into the envelope and turn it over. And, when I do, I see a single name with no accompanying return address.
Emily Fox.
I pause halfway back to the box, my heart pounding.
“Don’t let the fox guard the hen house, even if the fox is really good looking.”
Bowen’s goddamn tattoo…
Kneeling down next to the box, I hesitate, and then in a split-second decision, turn and shove the envelope into my bag by the wall. Then I pick up the white trash bag, unroll it, and peek inside.
At first, it doesn’t look like anything, but when I reach in, I realize it’s a shirt—or what’s left of one. The heather grey, long-sleeved t-shirt is worn and incredibly dirty, covered in dust and stained with large black splotches, like smears of charcoal. When I unfold it to get a better look, I cringe and drop the shirt back onto the bag.
“What the—”
The stench is subtle, but it’s strong enough that I can’t ignore it. It smells like death.
Turning my hands over, I look at my palms with disgust, the black charcoal splotches having left smears over my skin before I start compulsively wiping my hands down my jeans. Swallowing hard, I gather the shirt and the bag and drop both back into the box, my heart beating harder with every passing moment.
I can’t stay here much longer...
Next, I grab the pieces of white paper and unfold them. It’s a printout of an article from the Internet. The headline jumps out at me immediately.
BODY OF MISSING CANAAN SENIOR FOUND
Canaan—The search is over for a Canaan High School senior who vanished one week ago. The Canaan Police Department confirmed that the body of 18-year-old Evelyn Maguire was located Friday just south of the Wyandot Nature Preserve. Authorities were notified Friday morning that Maguire was discovered inside a culvert by her stepbrother, Colson Lutz.
My jaw drops with a gasp and I sink further down onto the floor. I clasp my hand over my mouth, my chest tightening as I stare at his name.
“Oh god,” I murmur, shaking my head in disbelief, “oh, Colson…”
Chest heaving, I try to catch my breath as I scan the rest of the article chronicling Evie’s disappearance. I drop the papers back into the box, my eyes darting aimlessly around the room before I remember that I don’t have time to freak out yet. I’m about to toss the black trash bag back into the box with everything else, but I hesitate. It’s the last item.
Frantically, I unroll it, deciding to look inside and then get the hell out of here. Much like the white trash bag, whatever is inside is very light. I lift the end of the bag and try to shake the contents out onto my hand.
At first, I don’t know what I’m seeing, but then a clearer image begins to materialize.
Laying across my palm is a long, vibrant red braid fastened tightly at each end with beige hair ties.
“Jesus!” I drop it onto my lap and then begin twitching, sliding the hair off my jeans before springing off the floor, “What the fuck!”
I stagger around the room, gasping, cursing, writhing, and wringing my hands in horror.
