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I stand in front of my sliding glass door for a good five minutes, just staring across the grass toward the tree line. Scanning, searching…
He was here, I know it. I saw him right in front of me. I felt his body heat through the glass, against my own skin. He could’ve come right through the door if he wanted to. Why didn’t he? Not that I’m complaining…He’s gone now, but not really gone. I just don’t see him.
But did I really see him?
It’s happening again, and I have to use every shred of mental fortitude to keep it in check. If this is my reality, I have to keep my wits and keep a lid on it, at least for now. I’ll freak out later. Right now, I can’t afford to.
I haven’t checked my email since the guys left on their quads, loaded down with rifles, scopes, cameras, blinds, and enough camo to disguise a tank. Sometimes it feels like I’m in some redneck version of Moby Dick.
The legendary whitetail. The king of the forest. The ghost in the pines….
But we all know they didn’t leave to find the buck wreaking havoc on my garden. They have their sights set on something bigger.
It’s probably a good thing that I’m maintaining my self-imposed media blackout. I know I have emails and DMs—lots of them. But after the restraining order was leaked, the podcast went live, Sydney’s bombshell exposé dropped, and Hailey Hawks started spilling the tea, in very short order, I decide I need to step back and not worry about them right now.
I also didn’t plan on waking up and seeing what I saw. I don’t need to be distracted. I have to be alert and vigilant. I hope the guys come back soon, I want this to be over, and I don’t even have a dog here with me to hear what I can’t hear and feel what I can’t feel. In many ways, I’m blind without him, but there’s nothing I can do about it right now.
I haven’t told anyone about this morning. Maybe I should, but there’s really no point. While I’m thinking about it, my phone vibrates with a text.
VALERIE (9:49AM): My cousin’s getting rid of some baby clothes, could you use them?? If so, I can drop them off later this afternoon.
The truth is that I can. I love being frugal, and the idea of paying $10 for a single onesie that’ll be destroyed before my baby grows out of it is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. I’m also interested in learning more about Valerie. I feel like she and I hit it off and, in many ways, that fact alone is both fascinating and unsettling.
It’s about six when I hear the grinding of Valerie’s tires on the gravel outside. When I open the front door to the sound of her footsteps on the stairs, I realize this is the first time I’ve opened the door since yesterday. Fortunately, I’m greeted by Valerie’s wide smile covered in shiny pink lip gloss and her bright caramel eyes instead of something much more terrifying.
“They’re mostly unisex,” she holds up a large, plastic shopping bag, “I hope that’s OK.”
“It’s perfect!” I take the bag from her and head for the kitchen, peeking inside it as I go, “Make yourself at home,” I call, setting the bag down on the island, “want anything to drink?”
“No, thanks!” Valerie calls back as my phone vibrates in my back pocket.
I chuckle to myself as soon as I see the text.
LARA CROFT (5:53PM): What the fuck is she doing there?
ME (5:53PM): Plot twist…
I fire off my response, but pause at the threshold of the living room to send another.
ME (5:54 PM): Did you see him here this morning?
I’m unsure whether it’s better if she tells me I’m hallucinating or confirms that I woke up to my nightmare standing outside my window.
LARA CROFT (5:54PM): I saw him. And if I did, then I guarantee my brother had a scope on the back of his head.
I tuck my phone back into my pocket, opposite of the holster affixed above my right hip. When I return to the living room, Valerie’s standing at the built-in bookcases, craning her neck as she examines all the framed photos, books, and mementos adorning each shelf.
She lingers on a black enamel Gothic-style frame directly at eye-level. It’s an 8x10 photo of he and I on our back deck. It was taken by his sister right after I moved here, when this house was still so new to me. Neither of us are even looking at the camera; we’re both straddling the railing and he’s sitting behind me, his arms locked around my torso and his chin resting against my temple as I lean back against him. I’m gazing off into the trees, the twilight sun making my eyes look almost as fluorescent as his.
I remember exactly what I was thinking. It was the first time I felt like I had a home again. And after everything, it seemed so surreal that it was with him.
Finally, as though breaking from a trance, Valerie moves away from the photo and continues over the rest of the shelves, scanning the row of books below it.
“You know,” she glances over her shoulder at me, “I realized after all the car trouble that I never got a chance to talk to you about your book!”
I make my way to the sofa and collapse into my usual spot behind the tufted cream-colored ottoman, “Funny, isn’t it?”
She turns to join me, “I don’t know how people sit down and write whole books,” she says with a shake of her head. “How’d you even come up with the story? I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
“Well,” I let out a snort, “first you have to have an idea. It’s a lot easier to write about things you’ve experienced. Remember that story I told you at lunch?”
She nods as she takes a seat close to the corner of the sectional.
“It’s all true,” I tuck my leg up under me, “the names are different, but the story is the same.”
“What do you mean? Like…” her eyes dart around the room as she recalls the story, “all of it?”
Her smile begins to fade, almost like she’s silently running through each chapter in her head.
“My therapist told me I shouldn’t stop writing, especially since it was at the heart of what happened,” I glance at the dark hallway, toward the bedroom where the flash drive is still plugged into my USB port. “It’s kind of ironic, though. She said women need books like this to help them realize what they’re experiencing. Because when you’ve been so brainwashed, no one can tell you anything…” I turn to meet the unsettled expression Valerie is trying so hard to hide, “not even your best friend.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
Brett
One Year Ago
