I’m not sure I do, but I know he’s going to tell me anyway.
“Her name was Evie.” Bowen lifts his eyes to the ceiling as though he’s already told the story a million times over, “Someone took her into the woods, shot her, beat her up, fucked her, choked her out, cut off her hair, slashed her up with a knife, and then stuffed her in a sewer pipe.” He lowers his gaze to me, his eyes going dark, “Can you imagine?”
I cringe, “I don’t want to.”
“No,” Bowen shifts his weight, “I mean, can you imagine the rage involved in doing that to someone? It wasn’t enough to kill her, she had to suffer. She had to be stripped of everything until there was nothing left except a used, broken, mutilated pile of skin and bone. And then, even after that, she was so meaningless that she was stuffed into a pipe to show everyone she was nothing but trash, sunk into muddy creek water to rot back into the earth. What do you do to deserve that?”
I shake my head, “She couldn’t have done anything to deserve that.”
“Well,” Bowen looks up gravely, “someone thought she did.” He speaks so bluntly, probably numb from years of marinating on the horrific details of Evie’s death. Bowen shakes his head, “Hildy still can’t accept it—not really. It’s too fucked up.”
A shiver runs across my shoulders, “Who took her out to the woods?”
“It was someone who knew her,” he states with confidence, “otherwise, there’s no way she would’ve ended up that far out. That’s why it took so long to find her. My granddad was the one running the whole investigation and they would’ve found her sooner, but she wasn’t even in their search radius.” Bowen pauses, his eyes darkening again, “But you know who did find her?”
I cock my head and wait for him to speak.
“This one guy who was obsessed with her.” Bowen clenches his jaw, a hint of pain in his eyes, “Of all the hundreds of people searching, he’s the one that finds her. He put her there,” Bowen growls, “and he went back to find her.”
I stare at him, stunned, “So, why isn’t he in prison?”
Bowen shrugs, “Hell, if I know. She was in such bad shape, there’s no evidence of anything. And that’s what messes with Hannah—that the guy who did that is still walking around. But I told her nothing would happen to her or anyone else. That’s why when she loses her shit, I’m the one who has to bring her back down.”
“Bowen,” I say gently, “that’s really unhealthy. It’s really codependent.”
His eyes wander across the room to Waylon and the hum of his usual snoring, “Have you ever noticed how Waylon and Brody act when they’re together?”
I glance at Waylon. His ears twitch once and his legs spasm, probably dreaming that he’s running after a squirrel—back when he could run fast.
“In what way?”
“Waylon was four when Hildy and Jay got Brody as a puppy. They’ve spent most of their lives together. They’re basically brothers, but Brody knows Waylon’s in charge. It’s the most obvious when they eat. Back when Brody was a pup, Waylon had to teach him to wait his turn, and if Brody got into Waylon’s bowl, he’d growl and nip at Brody and knock him across the room to show him who was boss. After that, if Brody got too close to something that was Waylon’s, all he had to do was show his teeth and Brody would back off. After Brody got older, he learned how to communicate, and we don’t even see it now. But, once in a while, Brody acts like a dumbass and Waylon has to put him back in his place.”
It's hard to imagine Waylon moving quickly at all. But that’s how animals are, isn’t it, they leap into action when they have to or risk starving or being killed?
“They’ve lived with each other so long that they know what the other’s thinking,” Bowen continues, “and if they want to live outside a cage, they know how to fall in line. If Brody’s in my house, he knows it’s me, Waylon, and then him. If they went nuts every time someone dropped a piece of bacon on the floor, they’d be useless. Sometimes, Waylon will let Brody have something of his, but only because he allows him to take it. And that’s how it is with Hannah—I might let her get away with some things because I know what all this did to her. She knows I have her back, but there’s still a hierarchy, and if she steps too far out of line, she’s always going to get put back in her place, especially if she’s fucking with anything inside my four walls.”
I glance down, concentrating hard on the woodgrain, “Does that include me?”
For a moment, I’m afraid to know the answer. I’m not part of their past or the specters that haunt each of them in their own way. I don’t know how to deal with broken people who lash out at me for existing.
Bowen pushes off the counter and places his hands on the granite on either side of me, “Listen very closely, Brett,” he lowers his voice, “you are my fourth wall. For a long time, I felt like something was missing, but when I found you, it all came together again.”
Sounds like how I felt…
He reaches up and cups my face in his hands, “If you keep listening to me—the one who cares about you more than anyone—I’ll keep you safe, because I promise above all else to take care of you.”
The brown of his irises fades into black the longer I stare at them, glinting in the light like the moon over dark water. I reach up and squeeze his wrists, giving a nod before pressing his lips to mine. I don’t know what I expected Bowen to do, but I believe him now, because he keeps his word and when he says he’ll do something, he does it.
Bowen returns his hands to the countertop and taps the granite with his thumb, “Hannah might bitch and moan about it but, in the end, she listens to me because she remembers what happened to Evie.” A look of disdain washes over his face, “And Evie would still be here if she’d have just fucking listened to me, too.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Evie
High School
I love the smell of night air in the spring, when it smells like lilacs and cut grass so strong it wakes up the earth after the long, grey winter. It reminds me of the countless nights I’ve spent hanging out with all my friends at the skate park. When the sun sets and the street lights turn on, the park comes alive and we can all be the purest versions of ourselves—no school, no jobs, and without the mounting responsibilities of getting older and figuring out what comes next. The night is just for us.
I almost didn’t even come tonight. Not that I don’t have the rest of the summer, but any chance I get to spend time with my friends before leaving for school, I’m going to take it because, come August, I’ll be 2,200 miles away.
I’ve never lived anywhere besides Canaan, and even though I love it here, I know it’s time to go. There have been signs, like the universe is telling me this chapter is over and I don’t belong here anymore. I have a scholarship, I’m going to play ball in college, and I’m even going to visit one of my friends in Canada as a graduation present. The last time I saw him was two years ago when he came to our school in the foreign exchange program and he became one of my closest friends. Now he lives in Canada near the west coast.
Like I said, signs…
No matter how much some things—or people—try to keep me in Canaan, the pull of what’s waiting for me is stronger, like gravity. And you can’t fight gravity.
I sit between Hildy and Hannah, my legs dangling off the brick wall that lines the perimeter of the skate park, passing a bag of Sour Patch Kids back and forth. Hildy waves at Jay as he glides over the concrete. I don’t think he’s even been cleared to step on a skateboard since his knee surgery, but he was probably going crazy. I would be, too, if I had to just sit around and think about what happened. He’s out here, but it’s doubtful he’ll ever be able to skate like he used to. I look away, trying to tamp down the queasy feeling in my stomach when I think about why.
My eyes wander to the far ledge, where Bo’s standing with two other guys. I recognize him by the swath of shaggy black hair that hangs over his eyebrows and his faded black t-shirt with the peeling Cleveland Cavaliers logo across the chest. They tip their boards at the edge and Bo glances up, catching my eye before they all drop in. I watch him streak back and forth over the concrete, climbing the sides and balancing on the ledges before dropping down again. Kind of like what he’d been doing for the past two months—dropping in and dipping back out, over and over again.
And that wasn’t part of my plan.
I applied to four schools—Ohio State, Miami of Ohio, Oklahoma, and UCLA, all of which have softball programs. Oklahoma and UCLA were my Hail-Mary-pie-in-the-sky dream schools. Oklahoma’s team was ranked number one in the nation and UCLA was second. If I got into either of those, I’d be on scholarship and not have to worry about tuition. Ohio State and Miami also had softball programs, and even if I didn’t make those teams—which would’ve sucked—I could still count on academic scholarships to some degree.
But I’m good. Like, really good.
I even got the Stevie Hunter MVP Award, which comes with scholarship money. It’s a big fucking deal. Stevie Hunter was the best softball player in the entire state, and she was from Hellbranch, right next to Canaan. She was this Amazonian freak of nature who hit more home runs and grand slams than anyone in Ohio softball history. She could pull a Babe Ruth, point straight to the outfield, and hit her mark every time. And since she was so tall no one expected her to be fast, too, but she had such a long stride she could round the bases in record time. She went to Oklahoma and won the NCAA championship with them—twice.
