She’s staring at the bottom of the door, and as soon as I open it, her eyes dart up to me with a look of alarm, like she was startled by a loud noise.
I furrow my brow at her state, “What the hell happened to you?”
She lowers her eyes again and trudges through my front door into the muted lilac foyer, looking like a tweaked-out zombie. The last time she set foot here seems like a lifetime ago. This is so unexpected that I don’t even know where to start. But I don’t have to decide, because when Brett opens her mouth, it all comes spilling out in one, long stream of consciousness—the assault, the texts, the book disappearing...
Good God, her entire book…
In some ways, this is more disturbing than hearing about Bowen attacking her. I’m not shocked when I hear things like that, anyone can snap and physically lash out if they’re angry enough. But destroying her book is so diabolical. It takes effort and planning to inflict that kind of psychological damage. It tore away a chunk of her identity, something she worked so hard on for so long.
Brett goes on about the box in the closet, Colson and his sister, the letter from Bowen’s ex, the filthy clothes, the hair, the engagement ring, Hannah showing up, the resignation email, the spyware on her phone...
She babbles on to the very end, until she’s out of breath and collapses against the wall. The only sounds I can hear now are airy sobs clicking in the back of her throat. I throw my arms around her, holding her in a bear hug as we slide down the wall to the floor.
“Why did he have to do this?” Brett wails in an agonizing scream of despair, “Why did he have to be like this?”
I press my temple to her cheek in silence, my eyes welling as I rock with her on my floor, “I don’t know, Brett, I don’t know…”
I can still see Bowen standing in my kitchen, transforming from my best friend’s fiancé into a sinister goon in less than a second, and I want to go find him and tear his throat out. But I can’t, so for now my only solace is that he’s grossly underestimated how deep the friendship between women runs. There’s enough to salvage our friendship even in our darkest moment. And one thing’s for sure—I was here before Bowen, and I’ll be here after.
Brett’s white Tahoe sits in the driveway in front of the garage door, and the longer I stare out the window at it, a sickening dread begins to take hold in my chest.
You’ve seen this before. You know what will happen.
It’s easy to trick yourself into believing that disaster isn’t minutes away, that evil isn’t sitting right on your doorstep, because it’s always something that happens to someone else. But aren’t we all someone else? I’ve seen this scenario play out in retrospect too many times.
How often do we wish we could go back and correct a single mistake? Haven’t I learned from those who didn’t see the signs and didn’t have the chance to go back? If I’m wrong, then so be it. But if I’m right, I can’t make that kind of mistake.
“Brett,” I pull myself together and start picking us both up off the floor, “I think you should move your car into my garage.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
Brett
Present
I never would’ve imagined I’d be able to run through these woods. Not until I spent every day out here memorizing each step from my back door to the clearing a quarter of a mile through the forest. It doesn’t seem like a long distance, but even where the terrain looks flat, it’s not. Hazards like elevation changes, dirt, roots, and rocks hide in plain sight, waiting to snap an unsuspecting knee or ankle.
“You’re slowing down, baby,” he calls over his shoulder as the space between us continues to widen.
“Your legs are longer,” I gasp between breaths, lunging through the line of ponderosas leading up the next hill.
“You’re lighter,” he counters, ignoring my excuses, no matter how justifiable.
With a growl, I pivot as he continues down the dusty slope. As soon as I reach the drop-off where the earth slid away long ago, I grab a pine branch jutting out from the side of the earth and swing off the edge. I land at the bottom, relaxing my knees so I collapse smoothly onto the pine needles in a barrel roll. As soon as I feel my feet under me again, I shoot up and keep running before he even reaches the bottom of the hollow.
He barks out a curse and his deep voice spurs me on like a whip at my back. Superficial fear propels me up the next hill and down the path we’ve worn through the wilderness day after day. I can hear his footfalls close behind me, but I don’t dare look back. Every time you look back, you slow down.
Soon enough, I see the clearing, or what’s left of it. Trees encroach on the barn now, but it used to be as open as the pasture 100 yards beyond it. I push harder, my legs burning and my heart pounding as I focus on keeping my ankles tense and balanced. If I snap one, it doesn’t matter how close I get, I’ll be dead.
With one last push, I slam into the planks of the barn, making them shudder. I don’t even try to catch my breath before spinning around and letting out a long whoop into the treetops.
I did it. I finally beat him. And I did so while growing a human inside me. I’m not showing yet, but it still counts. As time goes on, I’ll trade the morning sickness for a bigger belly, but I won’t quit training. I can still do this.
“You keep howling like that, the wolves’ll come running,” he smirks as he saunters toward me.
I lean back against the side of the barn, inhaling through my nose and out my mouth.
He stops, inches from me, and reaches up to cup my face so I’m looking up at him, “Breathe.”
I grip his wrists, focusing on his eyes as my muscles relax and my lungs calm.
Once my labored breaths turn steady and controlled, his voice turns harsh, “Are you done running?”
I give a curt shake of my head, “I never run.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“Drawing out my prey.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s what predators do.”
“Say it,” he bites out.
My jaw tightens and I glare up at him, “These are my trees and my woods, and I decide who’s forgiven and who’s not, and who leaves and who doesn’t.”
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