I pick up the empty shaker bottle from the Bronco’s cupholder, the mango smoothie long gone, and I’m instantly bombarded with sorrow.
“I should’ve offered to make them for you from the start,” Colson said when he handed it to me, “without all that gritty shit in it.”
“I like that gritty shit,” I reply, unable to contain my smile.
“Whatever,” he says with a roll of his eyes, “if I had, you would’ve figured out what Bowen was up to the second you saw those bottles of nastiness in your refrigerator and car.”
It was clever of Bowen, trying to make it seem like Colson was leaving the smoothies in the house and in my car. But there are some things that can’t be picked up through phone speakers and spyware. Quiet things, like lingering stares and silent conversations that slowly spill out after years of distance.
It seems so long ago. It’s been less than three days and I’m beginning to lose Bowen—how he looks at me, how he feels, how he sounds. It’s all being replaced by what he was like the last time I saw him. I can only remember how his hands felt throwing me around on the bed, when he slammed me against the bathroom wall, and the sound of his voice while he told me all the vile things that would happen to me.
Part of me misses him—the Bowen I met at Salt Fork. That’s what I think about most when I’m driving north, across the border into Ontario. How can someone love so fiercely and exist in the same body as someone so cruel. And I keep thinking about it after I get to Jo’s and, by that time, it’s spilling out across her and Omar’s kitchen table, their living room sofa, their balcony while I try to explain how I ended up on their doorstep with no house, no vehicle, and no job.
Well, technically I still have a job. But I’ll need to figure out what’s happening with that sooner rather than later. I don’t even know how long I’m legally allowed to stay in Canada.
But with each minute, the more Bowen fades into a shadow of a memory. I know he’s still out there and he knows that I know what he’s done. My first night at Jo’s, I keep waking up thinking I’ll see his silhouette in the doorway, that he’s found me all the way up here. He’s already been to her house once…
I blocked Bowen’s number when I was at Barrett’s house after he texted me, so I don’t know how much he’s tried in vain to contact me since then. But the only thing I do know about Bowen, without a shadow of a doubt, is that he can’t keep the mask on forever without betraying who he is. And, according to Barrett, he’s not finished trying.
It’s early and the condo is silent, which is my favorite part of the day. If I’m not in my home, surrounded by my things, the next best thing is sitting in Jo’s bright living room in front of the window that faces the lake.
Just like when we were kids.
I take the opportunity and muster the mental fortitude to call Barrett. She knows I’m here, and that I’m safe, but I’ve yet to speak to her.
“Oh, Bowen came back alright,” she chirps as I sip my steaming cup of coffee, “I turned the GPS off the night I dropped you at Colson’s and he called me no more than an hour later. He asked where you were, put on this little show, so concerned because no one had heard from you…” Barrett continues with a sigh, “I told him maybe he should’ve made friends with Colson, then he’d be able to get ahold of you,” she giggles.
“What?” I shriek into the phone.
Even now, Barrett manages to slip in a few jabs and dig the knife in deeper.
“Fortunately, Clay and Dalton came down early for their friend’s birthday, so they were already at my house by then. So, then Bowen said he’d get the law involved, as if I’ve masterminded some grand kidnapping conspiracy. He must be getting desperate. I told him, please do, go tell gramps that I disappeared your woman. And then he did, of course.”
“He did what?”
I can hear Barrett chuckling into the phone. Meanwhile, my heart is beating out of my chest. How can she be so calm?
“OK,” she says as she catches her breath, “so, it’s not illegal for him to put a GPS on a car that he owns, so I couldn’t say much about that. But get this, last night, I get another knock on my door and it’s two Columbus police officers. And that’s not all—there were five cruisers, lights flashing, sitting out front, blocking my street. They had officers surrounding the house. I’m shocked there wasn’t a helicopter.”
“Oh my god…” I murmur, staring wide-eyed across the floor.
“It was great, they put us all in separate cars, questioned us…freaking El Chapo on Hibernia…” she trails off with another chuckle, “it was bonkers.”
“But why were they all there?”
“I don’t know what else Bowen told them, but he reported your Tahoe as stolen and gave them the last location from the GPS before I turned it off. That’s how they knew where to find it. But as soon as I explained to them why he reported your car as stolen and that I knew you were safe and I could get you on the phone if they wanted, they backed off. They don’t like being jerked around by other agencies and getting dragged into small-town drama. There’s too much murder in this city for that. But they did me a favor and took your Tahoe when they left, so I didn’t even have to figure out what to do with it.”
That part makes me smile. “Well, that’s a relief. I wouldn’t want to take up your garage space longer than necessary, so are you all OK?”
“Oh, yeah,” Barrett chirps, “just another Friday night on Hibernia! At least it gave the neighbors a show. Bowen might be good, but he’s not that good. You still have people in your foxhole…”
Bowen’s not that good, but he once was. Barrett’s right, my only saving grace is that I still have people in my foxhole, despite his best efforts.
Yeah…a trauma therapist and a stalker.
Still, other women haven’t been as lucky. Emily wasn’t as lucky. And Evie did have people—like Colson—but it didn’t matter…
After Barrett promises to call me when she leaves work, I set down my phone—now black instead of Drunk Tank Pink—and stare out the window toward the lake, feeling the silence.
Really feeling the silence.
And as I breathe, the oxygen gives birth to a spark, igniting something in the pit of my stomach. A slow burn begins and the events of the last year—not even one year—play over in my mind. I don’t know how long I sit there, staring out the window in a catatonic state. But when the reel ends, my fingers itch and there’s only one thing on my mind.
I set down my coffee cup and disappear into the spare bedroom, returning with my work bag—or what used to be my work bag. I dig out my worn-out copy of The Outsiders with its cracked spine and feathery dog-eared pages and begin leisurely flipping through it. I don’t know what I’m looking for. Maybe nothing. But when I finally get to the end, I begin reading a little slower.
Johnny and Dally saving all the kids from the fire. Johnny dying, Dally dying…Ponyboy left to pick up the pieces of his misunderstood friends, their voices drowned out by bias, misinformation, and lies. Ponyboy deciding he’s going to tell their side of the story.
Ponyboy…
Pony…
I set down the book and reach into my bag again, this time retrieving my laptop and nestling it into my lap. Then I open a blank document and stare at the blinking cursor for a few minutes.
Tell your story.
When I put my fingers to the keys, the floodgates open and everything comes spilling out. My fingers remain there for days because there’s nothing else to do, and it all has to come out somehow.
If the legends were true, I was on a journey to find monsters in the hills of Guernsey County...
