The underside of his forearm is covered in ink, tattooed with the silhouette of a mountain range, its undulating grey shadows extending from his wrist to the crook of his elbow. When he adjusts his stance, I see an ornate compass rose that extends the same length of his forearm. It’s beautiful, and I hate it at the same time.
Colson leans forward and points to my screen with his left hand as he asks Eric a question about hallway connectors. That’s when I see his left arm is also covered in black lines that criss-cross back and forth. As he moves his hand, I realize they’re connected by stars that form constellations.
Eric points to the schematic of the building layout on my second monitor, “This is the hallway I was telling you about…” He goes on to explain which exits will be prioritized for evacuations and which ones are designated for first responders.
If they stay in my office much longer, I’m sure I will be the one requiring the squad by the time he quits droning on about alarms and door locks. My office feels too small and both of them are entirely too close to me. It’s hot, but I’m shivering and my hands are cold and clammy.
My eyes drift from Colson’s arm to his hand, still splayed out on my desk. I still recognize his hands, even after all this time. Then again, how could I forget? Then I glance at his vest overtop his black t-shirt. I know what’s there, beneath the thin layer of cotton. And I wonder if it’s changed, after what happened…
Stop it.
Involuntary flashes of that night pelt my brain.
It’s not your problem. He tried to kill you. It doesn’t matter.
I remember thinking how clean his nails were for someone who went tramping around in the woods, climbing rocks and clearing trails all the time. That hasn’t changed. Except, now, he has a jagged scar across the top of his hand. That wasn’t there before.
I shift my gaze to his wrist. His chunky black activity tracker watch reads 10:42. Finally, after what seems like an hour, Eric and Colson stroll back around to the front of my desk, finishing their conversation like I’m not even here. But I don’t mind. If they could continue to ignore me, that would be great.
“Alright, thanks, Brett!” Eric gives me a wave as he steps into the hallway.
“No problem,” I wave back.
I look down at my computer screen and wait for everyone to vacate my office, but I hear a faint noise and glance up. And when I do, my breath catches. Colson is standing in the doorway, tapping the frame.
“So, um,” he looks me up and down and the corner of his mouth curls ever so slightly, “nice to meet you.”
Before I can react, Colson disappears around the corner, leaving me with a pit of dread deep in my gut. My hands fly to my face and I press my fingers into my eyelids, drawing in deep breaths. And then I hear his voice, taking me back to that run-down gas station on that deserted road in the middle of nowhere.
“If you’re good, I’ll mark you as mine…then I’ll bind your hands, so you won’t run when I start telling scary stories.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Brett
One Year Ago
“He actually said, nice to meet you,” I groan, twisting my fork into my pile of spaghetti.
Bowen shakes his head in disbelief, dragging a piece of garlic bread through the remaining marinara on his plate. Another perk of living with Bowen Garrison—the man can cook. And he makes sauce like some 90-year-old Sicilian grandmother.
“That’s messed up,” he mutters between chews.
The pasta falls off the prongs and I stab at my plate again, this time harder. Why is it so hard for me to get a forkful of spaghetti right now? As if I haven’t been eating the damn pasta since I was two years old.
“And what can I even do about it?” I stab my fork into a different section of the spaghetti pile, “Nothing.”
Bowen finishes chewing and slides his fork onto his empty plate, “So, he’s just—” he still looks confused, “there now?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” I finally manage to wrap enough spaghetti around my fork for a decent bite, “just working like everyone else.”
“Let me process this,” Bowen leans back and slings his arm over the back of his chair, “the last time you were with him, he put a gun to your head. And, now, he walks around the same building as you, carrying a gun, because it’s his job?”
“Yeah,” I murmur, staring down at my water, the condensation dripping into a puddle beneath the glass.
Bowen doesn’t say anything at first, but then his expression changes from contemplation to agitation.
He scoots his chair back and picks up his plate, “Maybe if you’d told someone about him back then, he wouldn’t be allowed to carry now,” he snaps and heads for the sink.
Wait…what?
I blink, unsure how to respond. The only sound comes from Bowen’s heavy footsteps followed by the clank of his dishes being loaded into the dishwasher. A steady anger begins to rise in my stomach.
“Are you saying this is my fault?” I spin around in my chair, “My fault he did what he did?”
Bowen looks up at me and shuts the dishwasher, “You know I didn’t mean it that way.”
I look down at my plate, my fork full of spaghetti hell-bent on thwarting me tonight. Now I don’t feel like eating anymore, and that only makes me angrier because this is one of my favorite comfort foods. I scoot my chair back, pick up my plate, storm over to the sink, and set it down on the counter.
Bowen glances down at my plate, and then at me, “What are you doing?”
“I’m done,” I say, my voice thick with irritation.
“No, you’re not,” he replies, as if correcting a simple mistake.
I shove the plate over the edge of the sink and send it crashing to the bottom. The plate doesn’t break, but the spaghetti is done for. A moment later, while glaring at the mess of ruined pasta, I feel Bowen’s hand around my wrist, turning me towards him.
“Hey,” his voice softens, returning to its normal tone, “you can’t act like this.”
