There’s a dead girl’s hair in that box!
Sucking in deep breaths and trying not to pass out, I pace back and forth in front of it, trying to decide what to do. I can’t just leave the hair—Evie’s hair—laying on the floor. After much cringing and hand-wringing, I finally kneel back down.
“Shit!” I hiss, pinching the braid between my index finger and thumb and lifting it from the carpet, “Shit, shit, shit…” I drop it in the box, loose, and grab my stomach and chest, wringing my shirt in revulsion.
Seconds away from hyperventilating, I glance between the filthy, tattered shirt and the braid laying on top of it and fall to my knees. Tucking the flaps over one another, I work quickly to close the box and grab my bag, zipping it up and throwing it over my shoulder. Grasping the box, I take one last look around the room.
Suddenly, I hear the door in the laundry room open and I freeze, drawing in a sharp breath when I see who steps through the door.
We stare at each other, eyes wide, mouths hanging open.
She’s dressed in Navy blue scrubs, her hospital badge hanging from a clip on her collar. She looks like she just came from work. She glances at the crawlspace hatch laying on the carpet and follows the trail of dust and crud into the open closet where the kitchen chair is still shoved halfway inside under the hole in the ceiling. She lingers on the crawlspace for a moment too long, growing more panicked as her eyes dart back to me in astonishment.
Sneaky ass bitch…
“Why are you here?”
Hannah’s eyes betray her, darting over my shoulder to the hallway, “Give me the box,” she finally says, brushing me off with an annoyed tone.
“It’s yours?” I glare at her, my mouth twitching with bubbling rage, “So, you know what’s inside?”
I can’t decide whether I believe her, but it doesn’t matter. Whether or not Hannah put these things in the box herself, she knows what’s inside and she’s willing to help conceal it.
“Just give me the box,” there’s a razor edge to her voice.
“Did Bowen send you over here?” I demand, “Did you know he attacked me and then locked me in that room? Did he tell you that?” My voice grows louder with each word, “Did you come over here because you do whatever he says? You sick fucking bitch. You desperate cunt!”
“You—” Hannah seethes, her jaw tightening, “you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” Her chin trembles with rage, “Who the hell are you? You’re not one of us. You’re a nobody!” She takes another step toward me, “You’re just another one of his sluts he plays house with. He’ll get tired of you just like all the others, and then he’ll throw you away and find another one!”
“Just not you,” I murmur, my eyes boring into hers.
The veins in her neck pop and, as much as she tries to hide it, I see the sharp pain in her eyes. Maybe I’d feel bad for anyone else, but not her. I don’t know what, but Hannah’s done something horrible. If she hadn’t, she wouldn’t want this box so bad and she wouldn’t be standing in my way, still following Bowen’s orders.
“Hannah, what did you do?” I take a deep breath, “Where is Emily?”
She takes a step toward me, her shoulders rigid and fists clenched, “Give me the box!” she barks, screwing up her face in rage.
This time, Hannah doesn’t wait for me to comply. She lunges forward and grabs for the sides of the box. I slam into her with my shoulder, trying to shove past her and make a run for the door, but she grabs my bicep, jerking me around and knocking the box from my grip. My bag slides from my shoulder and lands with a thud next to it.
Blind with rage, she comes at me again, grabbing a fistful of my hair and pulling me to the ground. Screaming and cursing her, I grab her wrist and start jerking her from side to side until we both tumble onto the floor. Flailing my legs, I try to keep moving so she can’t climb on top of me. She manages to grab onto me sideways and wrench my head back, raining down blows on my shoulders as I try to cover my head. Taking a chance, I throw my elbow back and catch her in the jaw.
She lets out a scream, and as soon as I feel her fingers loosen, I pull my head away and roll over, swinging my leg over her torso. I grab her hair and crouch over her, bringing my fist down over and over.
“You!” Punch “Fucking!” Punch “Bitch!” Punch “What kind of woman are you?” I scream at her, expelling all the air from my lungs as I rain down blows on her head and neck.
Get out. Now.
Climbing over Hannah, I grab the strap of my bag and hoist it over my shoulder. Suddenly, she grabs my ankle and I stumble forward, falling halfway back onto the floor. Kicking frantically, I scramble across the floor and tear through the kitchen out the garage door. As soon as I touch the driver’s side handle, the Tahoe unlocks and I throw both bags inside, terrified that I’ll see Hannah only feet behind me.
I slam the door, lock it, and start the ignition as fast as I can. Seconds later, I’m skidding around the gravel in a three-point-turn before finally gunning the engine down the driveway. When I look in the rearview mirror, Hannah’s SUV is still sitting in the driveway, but she’s still nowhere in sight.
As soon as I’m on pavement, hitting 50, I take a breath and reel back, slamming my fist down on top of the wheel.
I left the box. I can’t believe I left the box.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Brett
Present
“It’s been a week. How do you feel?” Judy asks while she sips tea from a chunky ceramic mug with pink snails all over it.
It looks like it was handmade by a child—at least the snails, anyway—hand-thrown with flat cutouts of dusty pink glazed snails pressed unevenly into the sides. For some reason, the longer I stare at it, the more excited I get, like something really big is about to happen.
I can’t hold back my smile, “I don’t know what kind of voodoo shit you’re into, but whatever you did last week changed everything. I just feel…different.”
“That’s so wonderful,” she beams, “we can’t erase the past, but sometimes all you need is a way to take the edge off—step outside all the chaos, if you will—so your mind has the space to heal.”
I let out a snort and nearly descend into uncontrollable laughter at her uncanny response.
“Give me an example,” she peers at me over the lip of her mug, “how do you feel different?”
“I went out on the trails by myself—completely alone. I shouldn’t have, but I did.”
“Why not?”
“You should never go out into the wilds by yourself, and I’ve always known that. You can get lost, hurt, or attacked. But I don’t know…” I can’t explain the serenity that’s replaced the crippling anxiety, “this time, I didn’t feel like I was being watched anymore. I didn’t feel like I would turn around and see him. But…” I hesitate, the gnawing feeling still there, if only in the background, “I know I’ll see him again, just not right now.”
