But something is off. Maybe it’s the residual effect of such a vivid dream, but it makes me stop at the end of the bed. I hesitate, staring straight ahead into the bathroom as I let the feeling wash over me. Then I catch something dark in the corner of my eye and slowly swivel my head to the sliding glass door.
He’s there.
The monster is there, staring back at me.
I can’t breathe because, at first, I don’t realize that there are two panes of glass between us. But glass or not, he’s there; a tall black silhouette, staring at me with those eyes. Dead eyes.
The devil’s eyes.
He’s wearing black camo pants…a black t-shirt…
But it was just a dream…a nightmare…
I gasp as he slowly reaches up and tries the door. It catches in the lock and won’t budge. Although imperfect, it’s not like other sliding glass doors; the lock is different, by design. But it moves. The door fucking moves. It doesn’t open, but I hear it hit the lock in the frame.
I blink. Are you sure he’s real? I blink again. He’s still here, and the door just moved. The sounds, the footfalls on the front porch…
Feet smaller than a bear, but bigger than a deer…
My heart pounds, but I fight to keep my breathing steady. Slowly, I step to the side and turn to the door. I’m awake, and I know what I’m seeing.
Don’t second-guess yourself…
I take a step toward the door, and then another. His eyes move, glancing down at my feet with each step, until I stop only an arm’s reach from the glass. I force my muscles to work and begin to raise my hand. He looks down, drawn to the movement. I bring my hand up and splay it out on the glass in front of me. He shifts his eyes back and forth between my hand and my face, the corner of his mouth curling at my invitation.
After a few moments, he slowly raises his hand and presses it against the glass, eclipsing mine. I wait, and then to my utter shock, his warmth begins to seep through the cold glass.
Seconds later, I hear a whisper, and suddenly realize it’s my own voice, “I’ve been waiting for you, too.”
I close my eyes in a long blink. And when I open them again, the warmth is gone, and so is he.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Colson
One Year Ago
8:24.
I don’t know what makes me pull up the camera feed when I do. Maybe it’s because Brett’s not in her office yet and I thought she would be by now.
I tap the orange dot indicating activity and see the timestamp, 07:02:11. Bowen opens the front door and walks outside with his backpack and a travel mug, except his truck isn’t parked in the driveway.
It wasn’t last night, either, which is odd.
He crosses the gravel and strolls down the hill toward the barn. I squint at my phone. I’ve been watching him for the better part of a year and this is the first time he’s deviated from his morning routine in any way.
I tap the next orange dot, this one with the timestamp, 08:14:32. It’s subtle, but the lower half of the window on the right side of the house detonates, the screen bursting out onto the lawn. A few seconds later, a blue duffel bag comes flying out, hits the grass, and then Brett pops her head out.
I watch with a growing sense of dread as she tumbles out of the window head first and grabs the bag, running to the driveway. But then she drops the bag next to the driver’s side door of the Tahoe and turns back, heading toward the garage.
What the hell is she doing?
She goes back inside the house and then I see her activate the camera in the living room. I skip ahead to real-time and, to my horror, a silver SUV pulls into the driveway and Hannah Bailey gets out of the car. She stops at the brick walkway and stares at the open garage door for a few moments before pivoting and going inside the garage.
I’m out the door in less than 30 seconds, sprinting across the parking lot to my car. Something happened, but I don’t know when.
I missed something. I fucking missed something.
Skidding out the front gate, I gun the engine, racing down country roads toward Canaan. I haven’t done this—driven these roads this fast—in eight years.
Try to catch me now, assholes…
It takes 18 minutes, 26 seconds to get to Brett’s house from the front gate of Wolfsson. But I don’t give a fuck about the speed limit. I’ll bring every statey, deputy, and officer in the jurisdiction to that house with me.
Every few moments, I glance at my phone snapped into its holder on the vent, the screen split by the driveway and living room feeds. My Bluetooth finally connects and I can hear talking. Brett is standing opposite Hannah, holding a cardboard box. Their voices are hushed at first, until Brett’s voice echoes through the room. Soon, Hannah’s shouting back at her.
All but drifting around the next curve, I pump the brakes and then push the STI to 70 on the next straightaway. Then I do a doubletake as Hannah leaps toward Brett, knocking the box out of her hands and grabbing her by the shoulders. A few seconds later, they’re going at each other in an all-out brawl.
“Goddamnit!” I roar, pounding the steering wheel and speeding down the road as fast as I can while still keeping the tires on pavement.
I’ll fucking kill that bitch when I get my hands on her.
It all happens quickly, but Brett gets the upper hand and gives Hannah a good whaling before she’s able to get away and run back out of the house. Shifting my focus to the driveway feed, I watch her throw two bags in her car and peel out of the driveway.
It’s not five minutes before I see the white Tahoe in the distance, getting bigger and bigger as it speeds toward me on the opposite side of the road. As she gets closer, I hit my horn four times, trying to get her attention. She flies past me and I hit the brakes, turning the wheel and spinning the STI around in the middle of the road. The smell of burning rubber hits my nose as I squeal after her, catching up with the Tahoe in no time. As soon as I do, I call her.
“Hello?” Brett answers, her voice cracking.
