I turned to face him, my muscles rigid, “Then what do you mean—”
“I’m not blaming you,” Bowen starts shaking his head adamantly, “I just want to keep you safe. You called me and told me this asshole is in the same building as you and there was nothing I could do. Let me just sit with it and figure it out.”
I’m still in shock that I went to work this morning and, in a few short hours, my life was turned completely upside down. And then Bowen judging my choices back then feels like a knife through my chest. It’s unexpected and gut-wrenching. I clench my jaw as soon as I feel my chin tremble and the heat of the tears in my eyes. I don’t want to cry—I refuse to cry about this anymore.
“Come here,” Bowen tugs at my waist, pulling me to his chest.
I bury my face in his neck and inhale the scent of his skin, sweet and comforting, “I don’t know what to do,” I sniff, trying to resorb all the tears threatening to flow out of my face.
Bowen runs his hand up and down the length of my back, “You don’t have to do anything. You don’t even have to talk to him. What’s he going to do while you’re there, surrounded by everyone else?”
He has a point. It’s hard enough getting actual work done on any given day without someone popping into my office or stopping me in the hallway to talk about nothing. Why should I be afraid? After a year, I’m finally known and respected there. Why should I change my daily routine just because Colson Lutz shows up out of nowhere? I shouldn’t be afraid.
But I am afraid. I feel like I’m being hunted.
Again.
●●●
Two weeks.
I haven’t seen hide nor hair of Colson, but I know he’s here. Somehow, I’ve managed to avoid him. He’s still new, so maybe his routine isn’t set yet. But I find no comfort in it because each morning I wonder if today will be the day I run into him.
This morning is no different. I shuffle from window to window in my bedroom, throwing open the blackout curtains. It’s still pitch-black outside, but it’s routine. I glance at Bowen on my way to the bathroom, still asleep, his arm slung over the pillow and covered from the waist down by the disheveled flat sheet. He keeps the house at a cool 65◦ in January, but somehow still only sleeps in boxer briefs. Meanwhile, I sleep beneath the sheet, the comforter, and a fleece blanket in fleece joggers and a long sleeve t-shirt. In the dim light, all I can see is the contrast of his black hair and tattoos. His alarm will go off at 6:00, about the time I’ll be finishing getting dressed.
By 7:00, we walk out the front door together, backpacks, tote bags, and second mugs of coffee in hand. It’ll still be dark for another hour. On autopilot, I pull the door shut and follow Bowen down the brick walkway to the gravel driveway, looking down to make sure I threw my phone and keys in the side pocket of my bag.
“The training starts at 7:30, so I’m just going straight to—” my eyes elsewhere, I almost run into the back of Bowen.
He’s stopped just behind the tailgate of his truck, staring at the gravel behind my Tahoe. I peek around him and freeze, confused by what I’m seeing. Directly behind the bumper of my Tahoe is a four-foot stack of red brick paver stones—the same stones that used to be stacked against the house by the garage. But, now, they’re sitting in the driveway, neatly stacked behind my SUV, as though they’ve belonged there all along.
I look up at Bowen, goosebumps skittering over my arms beneath my winter coat. He’s silent, his eyes moving carefully over the stack of pavers. The shadows cast by the motion sensor lights on the garage seem much more eerie all of a sudden. Bowen takes a few steps toward the pile of bricks and slowly circles it. After a few seconds, his eyes travel down the driveway into the darkness.
I finally break the silence, “What is this?”
Bowen cranes his neck to look around the side of the garage and then turns back to the bricks, “Someone moved these.” The way he says it puts me on high alert.
His eyes narrow as he peers at the stack behind my vehicle. An uneasiness creeps into my chest the longer I look at them. Someone moved them—the entire four-foot stack of them—from the side of the house to the middle of the driveway sometime during the night. Someone was here last night, while we were asleep.
My mind starts going to dark places. This happens right after Colson suddenly shows up at my workplace? It’s beyond coincidence. And he just fucks with me. All he’s ever done is fuck with me.
But, then again, there’s someone else who’s already been in our house without permission, probably more times than I care to think about. I know for a fact that Hannah doesn’t like me, she has some weird-ass fixation with Bowen, and it’s my vehicle that’s now blocked in the driveway.
When I look at Bowen, he’s scrolling on his phone, the backlight illuminating his face. The more he scrolls, the more he shakes his head.
Finally, he tilts his phone toward me, “See?” he shows me his Ring app, “Your car’s out of frame, so it didn’t pick up anything all night.”
I stare at the view of the front walk with only the back half of Bowen’s truck visible. No one drove up the driveway, which means someone walked in from elsewhere in the middle of the night and moved the bricks.
I don’t want to think about this.
The realization that I have to get to work breaks me out of my stupor, but there’s no way I can move my vehicle. The bricks block the full width of the back bumper and the front is too close to the garage door to pull forward. Being rational, my first thought is to start moving the bricks, one by one, so I can get out.
I glance up at Bowen, “Should we…move them?” I murmur with apprehension.
He looks more irritated than anything—slighted, even.
“OK,” he unclips his keys from his belt loop, “I want you to take my truck today, and I’ll drive yours.”
“What are you going to do?”
Bowen looks down at the stacks of bricks, “Move them.”
With no other options, I reluctantly take Bowen’s keys and drive his F250 the 20 minutes south to work. I don’t have time to argue, I’ll probably be late anyway. Today, I have to be at work early for a four-hour long safety training. Of all days, I have to get up and speak about reporting suspicious behavior at the same time my home feels like the target of all of the suspicious behavior in the world.
Split into two sessions, half the employees attend one that occurs in the winter and the other half will attend the one in the summer. I arrive with two minutes to spare, scurry through the lobby, and search the crowded conference room for a seat. It doesn’t take long for me to spy Abby waving to me from the front row.
“You made it!” She sifts through a folder of papers as I tuck my bag under the chair.
“It’s been a morning,” I sigh, straightening my shirt and settling into my seat.
When am I supposed to be presenting? I can’t even remember.
“Me too,” Abby empties the rest of her coffee into her mouth, “I woke up late, and while I was rushing to get out of the garage, I forgot to open the door before I started backing out.”
“What?” I snort.
Abby gives a disgusted sigh, “The door’s dented to hell and my bumper’s scratched. It’s amazing I got out.”
