Brett
Present
During the 1918 flu pandemic, Gunnison made it through relatively unscathed because they implemented draconian measures to keep their people safe. No one in, no one out. And if you left, you couldn’t come back.
The people of Gunnison are no stranger to being vigilant and suspicious of intruders. I’m convinced that the only reason they accepted me is because of Colson and the fact that his father grew up here. It’s why, when Colson came to Toronto for the final time and brought me here, stepping onto this property felt like I was coming home. And when I went to town with him the next day, people already knew me because they knew him. Maybe it’s because this is where I belong.
And that’s the bottom line; I belong here. Bowen does not.
As soon as Valerie’s white Tahoe—excuse me, my white Tahoe—disappears around the bend, I know I’ll never see her again. Her job here is done. It was odd sitting in the passenger seat, watching someone else drive a vehicle specifically purchased for me. It even had the scratch on the dashboard from when I moved in with Bowen.
I wonder why he kept it. It would’ve been easy enough to sell. It was practically brand-new.
Keeping my head on a swivel, I stalk back up the driveway, gravel crunching under my black Vans.
It’s fortunate that I’m angry instead of afraid. It’s fortunate that I did the work, even when I didn’t want to, and spent all this time getting angry instead of staying scared. Because if I hadn’t, I would break down right there on the front porch, paralyzed with fear when I see the paper on my door, the Buck knife stabbed through it like a challenge—a dare.
You’ve been a bad bad girl Honeybee
I jerk the Buck knife from the door; Bowen’s Buck knife, with its classic dark brown handle and gold hilt and pommel. Then I glare at the heavy oak door, the wood marred with a one-inch cut stabbed into it.
Thanks a lot, fucker.
As soon as I see his note, I realize it’s a pronouncement, a statement of intent, a declaration of war.
Honeybee…
To me, it’s a thousand moments and a thousand memories in my cup that runs over. But to Bowen, it’s a curse, a blasphemous utterance insulting every fiber of his being. As it should. Clenching my fist, I crumple the paper in my fingers and throw open the door, immediately slamming it behind me and flipping the deadbolt. Then I stare at the knob with a sinking realization.
Shit. I didn’t lock the door when I chased his scout off my property.
I left my own house completely open, vulnerable, unprotected. Even though I know it’s still there, I feel for my Glock behind my back and slowly pull it from its holster. Chambering a round, I angle it down in front of me and start moving through the first floor, starting with the kitchen.
The plastic bag full of baby clothes still sits on the island, mocking me. It would’ve been a nice touch, if I didn’t immediately recognize the scent of the fabric deodorizer used by the second-hand children’s clothing store in town and the one tag from said store that she forgot to remove from a yellow onesie with ducks all over it.
Clear.
A steady rumble of thunder vibrates the window sills as I make my way into the living room. It’s getting darker as the clouds roll in over the mountains. I work quickly, scampering up the stairs and making my way into each of the three bedrooms and two bathrooms along the hallway. The corridor is open with a view over the railing down into the living room, which lets me detect any movement below.
Clear.
I return downstairs and head back to the Master bedroom. The bed is made, the white quilted bedspread smooth and undisturbed just like the vase on the dresser with its branches of eucalyptus, not a leaf out of place. My head is on a swivel as I cross the bedroom, stepping into the bathroom and spinning around. The marble shower is empty, the wavy blocks of glass along the wall consumed by the stormy, grey shadow outside. The only movement behind them is the familiar sway of branches from the birch just off the deck.
Clear.
I stop and listen. A deep rumble of thunder groans above and I clench my jaw in annoyance as it breaks my concentration. Ignoring the interruption, I creep toward the closet door at the other end of the bathroom, my gun raised slightly higher. I grab the knob and slowly twist before throwing the door open, prepared to fire into the walk-in closet.
But it’s empty. The drawers are closed and the clothes hang perfectly still. Slowly, I shut the door and return to the bedroom. I walk gingerly across the carpet toward the sliding glass door, peering outside across the lawn. The wind’s picked up, and birds dart in and out of the trees seeking shelter, but the yard is otherwise deserted. The clouds are dark and ominous, but it’s not raining. This happens a lot on the mountain—thunder without rain—but hopefully it’ll stop soon. Now’s not the time for superfluous noise.
The glass door is shut, its lock still engaged just as it should be. I flip the lock up and down a few times, then look up at the ceiling fan, its white blades perfectly still. And that’s when I notice it.
A faint sting of cigarette smoke hits my nostrils.
My gaze detection triggers and, suddenly, the monster is on the wrong side of the glass again.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
Colson
Present
I should go down there right now. One shot. Done.
But then I see Wells Rhinehardt right before he slammed me down onto a desk and Tate Garrison’s stupid fucking face and the look he gave me when I was just a high schooler who pulled my sister’s rotting corpse out of a drain pipe in the forest. My sister, who his grandson murdered. He was promising to make my life hell and destroy my family even further. Then again, Bowen was just a high schooler, too, and look at all the damage he managed to inflict in such a short time.
No, I relax my finger on the trigger, but only slightly. If that sliding glass door opened, then all the training that I got up in the Arctic would instantly pay off. But it doesn’t. The lock holds and Bowen remains on the right side of the glass.
I also keep my promises. And firing off a shot just because I’m impatient isn’t worth it. I’ve waited this long, what’s a day or two longer?
A lot. Because I’ve put up with enough of this bullshit, and now I just want to live in my house, fuck my woman, give her everything she wants, raise my children, and live happily ever after while my sister and one of my best friends live in the next valley over.
But that’s alright, I can wait. Because I’m a patient man, after all.
Through my scope, I suddenly see something light appear on the inside of the glass, then I realize it’s Brett’s palm pressed against the window. A few seconds later, Bowen lifts his hand and presses it against the glass in the same spot.
What the hell is she doing?
Both of them stay like that for only a few seconds, but it seems like an hour. Finally, Bowen lowers his arm and quickly steps away from the window, making his way across the deck and back down to the yard. When I’m confident he’s headed back into the woods, I peer through my scope again at the window, finally able to catch an unobstructed view of Brett.
