Because, in the end, Colson was right. He and I are the same—we both ran away, woke up in Canada, and couldn’t let it go.
CHAPTER EIGHTY
Colson
Present
Brett will tell you she looks rough, that the morning sickness drained the life from her and she struggles for the energy she used to have. And maybe she does feel rough, but it won’t last.
She looks even better, if that’s possible. I don’t know what she’s complaining about. It’s like every curve she had before she got pregnant got more pronounced and any extra weight she gains goes straight to her tits and ass. It takes all I have not to tell her to shut the hell up, but I won’t minimize her feelings, because I’m the one she confides in, and it’s going to stay that way.
She’s changed a lot over the last year, like how she doesn’t avoid her problems anymore. Part of it came from spending two hours a week in a therapist’s office, but I think the other part came from becoming a mom. There’s also the fact that she can’t avoid me anymore, either.
I’ve changed, too. It’s hard not to when I’ve also had to spend two hours a week with a shrink. It wasn’t voluntary, at least in the traditional sense. It was a promise I made to Barrett, of all people—under duress.
“As soon as you get to Colorado, you have to go see him. Promise me, Colson.”
I don’t forget when people come through for me, and Barrett’s one of those people. She could’ve turned her back and chosen not to get involved with Bowen’s shit show, especially after he turned Brett against her, but she didn’t. She put herself in harm’s way and confronted his ire without a second thought. And she has no problem confronting me in the same way.
“If you don’t deal with your past, you’re going to hurt her again. You may not beat her up in your sleep like last time, but it’ll be just as bad.”
Barrett also knows what the hell she’s talking about.
So, for her and Brett, I’ll sit on a couch and tell a stranger about all the fucked-up shit in my life and listen to him pick apart my issues. She went to all the trouble after all, and from all the way across the country.
But Mark Holloway’s not a bad guy. I don’t know what kind of shit he’s heard before, but he doesn’t seem fazed by my depraved mind. That, or he has a really good poker face. When I tell him my thoughts on the human condition and what I’m willing to do to people who brutalize others, especially mine, the look in his eyes tells me that he’s been through some shit, too.
I don’t forgive, and I don’t forget. Humans are no different from wild animals aside from our propensity to derive pleasure from the senseless pain of others. So, it’s not so much that I’ve changed as it is that Holloway provides me with the insight as to why I do what I do. Not that I need any reasons, but with insight comes enlightenment, and with enlightenment comes innovation. And innovation comes in handy when plans need to change.
My original plan went out the window as soon as I saw Brett bust out that window and barrel-roll out onto Bowen’s front lawn. No matter how meticulously planned, it didn’t matter anymore. Variables have a way of doing that. After that, all that mattered was getting Brett as far away from Bowen as possible.
I started building this house before I uttered one word to Brett in Wolfsson’s parking lot. By then, it was nearly half finished and all I needed to do was remind her where she belonged. And, slowly but surely, she was remembering. But, again, variables…
Fortunately, I’m a patient man.
I’ve spent years living in and out of the wilderness and weeks living in the Arctic in below zero temps, staring across vast spans of white snow and ice watching for an apex predator designed and evolved to blend in with said environment. So, waiting in the forest, watching Bowen Garrison slink around my property at night really takes me back to the good old days. It’s like a fucking hit of cocaine, and the euphoria will hit as soon as my bullet explodes through his skull.
Ultimately, he’s just another nuisance predator to dispatch, like a cougar or coyote who gets too close to the chickens. And, just like them, he can’t be allowed to leave this property alive.
But it takes patience; to draw him out, to get him here in front of me, and to wait for the right shot. Just like it took eight years of patience to get a phone call from someone who introduced herself as Agent Tammy Moreau from the FBI.
●●●
I was on my way home after work, driving up the snowy mountain, when she informed me that she’d been reassigned to Evie’s cold case.
Cold case. Bullshit.
Our parents contacted the FBI a couple of years after there hadn’t been any movement by local law enforcement—big surprise. Still, even with them calling regularly for updates and then me calling to bother them, things seemed to be at a stand-still.
I contacted them again after Bowen’s hissy fit last summer, this time even doing some of their job for them and sending them a few gifts, compliments of me, Brett…and Dallas.
And now Tammy Moreau sounds interested, which is a night and day difference from how it’s been up until now.
“I just went through the whole file,” she exhales a long, weary breath, “and, frankly, I’m trying to wrap my mind around all of it. I just reviewed the video statement from Brett Sorensen, the letter from Emily Fox, the texts on Brett’s phone, and the…” there’s an awkward pause, “other video you sent the field office.”
Yeah, I still had Bowen’s in-house sex tape. I only watched it once, on the night Bowen sent it. Otherwise, it’s been sitting in the cloud for close to a decade. It would’ve died with me, but Brett convinced me I had to turn it over to them along with everything else, decency be damned. It’s the only proof that exists where Bowen acknowledges Evie as his girlfriend…or whatever.
“I have to give it to you, though,” Moreau’s voice rises, “the lengths you went to preserve that strand of hair was impressive.”
Oh yeah, Evie’s hacked-off hair that was twisted in Brett’s pants. I grit my teeth; for some reason that part is just as bad as the moment I found Evie inside that galvanized pipe.
I push it out of my head for now and move on, “Have you spoken to Tate Garrison?”
“Yes,” her voice goes flat.
“How far’d that get you?” I scoff, knowing exactly how far it got her.
“About as far as dialing his number.”
Typical.
“So,” she takes a breath, “where does Bowen Garrison come into all of this?”
“What?” I deadpan.
There’s a long pause before she responds, “There’s no Bowen anywhere in your statement.”
“Are you—” I purse my lips and jerk the wheel of my truck in frustration, the tires pulling at the sharp curve, “are you kidding me? My entire statement was about Bowen.”
