“Son of a bitch…” Barrett spouts as she hoists the window open, followed by the screen. “What do you want, Bowen?” she calls down a few seconds later.
When I hear his voice, I squeeze the tops of my knees and my breath goes shallow.
“Is Brett here?” he asks in his normal, everyday tone.
“Why would she be here?” Barrett’s voice is thick with contempt, “Did you forget that she stopped speaking to me after what you said?”
Bowen sighs in exasperation. Instead of a response, an awkward silence hangs between them. I also notice he doesn’t question why she’s hanging out the second story window to talk to him instead of answering the door.
Bowen’s tone sharpens and his voice gets louder, “Because if she’s not, then something really bad might’ve happened to her.”
Barrett doesn’t miss a beat, “Like what?”
“She was still at the house when I left for work this morning, and when I came home, she was gone, the house was wrecked, windows broken, and her boss said she resigned. And I know Colson’s already been in my house once.”
My blood goes cold as it becomes clear that Bowen has already spun the narrative.
“Well, you know how trauma bonds go, they’re really hard to break.” Barrett’s words drip with venom, casting a shadow over Bowen as thick as a storm cloud.
“Is she in there with you?” he says with a warning edge.
The room suddenly feels much smaller and the steel front door downstairs might as well be made of straw.
“Do you see her car anywhere around here?” Barrett snaps.
Bowen hesitates, considering his next move, “Is this because I didn’t fuck you when you came downstairs naked last week? You won’t even help me find your best friend, who might be in real danger, because you’re salty with me?”
He’s smart, jumping from story to story, covering every possible scenario to see what might yield the best information. But Barrett doesn’t embarrass easily, and he underestimates the amount of bullshit she encounters every single day.
“Get out of here, Bowen,” Barrett sighs, “you’re not in Canaan. I don’t think the cops here care about who your family is.”
He knows better than to say anymore. He doesn’t control the narrative on Hibernia. A thick silence descends until I finally hear his truck start and the engine roar as he speeds away from the house. As soon as she’s satisfied that he’s gone, Barrett shuts the window but pauses, tapping her finger against the frame.
Finally, she knits her brow and looks down at me, “Why would he come here? As far as he knows, you’re still not speaking to me.”
I let my head collapse back against the wall with a thud, “Going through all my friends?” I guess with an exhausted shrug.
Barrett grabs her phone out of her back pocket and begins typing furiously. A few seconds later, my phone vibrates with a text. It’s a text from Barrett to our group chat with Katie and Emma.
BARRETT (7:24PM): Katie and Emma—has Bowen tried to contact you all today?
EMMA (7:28PM): Nope, why?
KATIE (7:31PM): No
BARRETT (7:33PM): I’ll fill you in later, but PLEASE let me know if he does.
“If he does talk to them, it’s better if they don’t know you’re here,” she says as she replaces her phone in her pocket.
I don’t like the tone in Barrett’s voice, and any sense of relief I gained throughout the day immediately disintegrated the instant her doorbell echoed through the house. She hesitates for another minute, her eyes wandering around the room while she ponders.
“I think he’s still tracking you,” she murmurs.
“How?” I feel the panic rise again, “Dallas found the app on my phone and deleted it.”
“I don’t know,” the troubled look on her face only intensifies as she peeks out the window again, “get out every single thing you brought with you. We have to check everything.”
Half an hour later, the contents of my duffel bag are spread across the living room; clothes, shoes, makeup, bottles haphazardly tossed together in a casserole of desperation.
What would you grab if your house was on fire? What would you grab before breaking a window and escaping the room your fiancé locked you in?
The contents of my work tote lay nearby. Barrett motions to me and I rise from the floor and follow her through the laundry room to the garage door. When she opens it, my Tahoe is the only vehicle parked in the garage, a giant white elephant in the middle of the room.
“Start on the inside,” Barrett squeezes between the front bumper and the wall, “I’ll check out here.”
Sitting in the driver’s seat, I don’t even know where to start. I don’t know how to search and deconstruct a vehicle. Running my fingers over every nook and cranny, I squeeze my fingertips between each seam, wondering if something will pop loose if I pull it hard enough.
I start chuckling to myself as I feel along the underside of the seats; this is the perfect job for Colson. I finally have the perfect job for him and he’s not even here. Then again…maybe he is. Who’s to say Colson’s not hanging out a few doors down, watching the house from his blue STI? He’s the only other person who knows I’m here. Maybe he was even here when Bowen stopped by. Either way, I should probably tell him what’s going on.
What—is he your keeper now?
“Ah!” a shriek echoes through the garage and I jerk up, smashing my head against the steering wheel, “I got you, motherfucker!” Barrett shouts from beneath the floorboards.
I scramble out the door and scurry around the back, where Barrett’s legs are sticking out from under the cargo area.
I crouch down as she begins scooting back out, “What? Did you find something?”
“I found it!” she squeals with excitement.
