“Yeah, well,” I glare up at him from my chair, “I thought about a few things you said. So, I finally told Barrett about you.”
The corner of his eye twitches with curiosity, “What did you tell Barrett about me?”
For a split second, there’s a glimmer of hope that I’m the one making him uncomfortable.
“Everything,” I reply flatly.
Colson presses his mouth together like he’s trying not to smile, “And?”
“She said I need to find a therapist to deal with your emotional abuse and then talk to HR and the police.”
He ponders this and, after a few moments, looks more disappointed than concerned, “Is that all she said?”
I stare at him in astonishment. I imply that he should be in prison and he sounds disappointed that Barrett wasn’t more impressed. Granted, there’s no way I’m telling him everything she said. But perhaps he was hoping she’d want to evaluate him and see how many pathologies he qualifies for. Maybe he collects them like shot glasses.
“And you’re manipulative,” I continue, “and you say or do disturbing things when you know I can’t leave.”
“I intimidate you to give you a clear conscience,” Colson says with indifference, “you’re welcome,” he winks.
“Well, you don’t,” I hiss back.
“Intimidate you or give you a clear conscience?” His tone turns patronizing, “Because I’d be glad to scare you into submission if it helps you avoid another existential breakdown. Your mixed signals are getting exhausting.”
“Stop talking to me like I’m a petulant child!”
“Then maybe you should stop acting like one. You can leave right now,” a smile creeps across his face, “but you won’t.”
“No,” I grit my teeth, “because this is my office, and you’re the one who should be leaving. I’m tired of running from you.”
“Then stop running.”
“Fine,” I shrug, “here’s me not running anymore—say what you need to say and get out. Done, mission accomplished, over and out.”
“Brett, there are a lot of things I didn’t get to tell you.” He nods out the window to the parking lot, “Want to take a ride?”
“Are you crazy?” I scoff, “I’m not going anywhere.”
I haven’t forgotten the folded piece of paper Bowen tossed across the counter to me a week ago; the one with Colson’s mugshot on it where he looks like Satan’s teenage son with his ocean blue eyes and perfect cheekbones glaring at the camera. And I certainly haven’t forgotten the reason for his arrest typed right under it.
I rise from my chair and plant myself on the edge of my desk, crossing my arms in defiance, “If you have something to say, you can say it here.”
“In that case, we’re more alike than you think,” Colson lets his icy gaze settle on me, “because I’m not going anywhere, either, Brett,” he lets the words sink in, “do you honestly think I’d travel hundreds—thousands—of miles and spend all this time and effort revolving around you like a goddamn satellite if I didn’t know exactly how this is going to end?”
My stomach bottoms out right there. He says it with such nonchalance that it doesn’t even sound real.
I lower my voice to a scornful whisper, “It’s because you’re a stalker.”
Colson bobs his head from side to side, “I prefer faithful to a fault.” Then he narrows his eyes, “Are you just upset because you think I forgot about you?”
“No!” I seethe through clenched teeth, “I’m upset because you tried to make me eat your gun. And then you show up out of nowhere to seek revenge on me for moving on with my life. I’ve never done anything to you!”
Colson studies me for a few moments before pushing off the cabinet. He takes a seat in my chair and leans back, looking me up and down while he chews his thumbnail. Shoulders tense and arms rigid across my chest, I stare right back at him and, after a few seconds, let out an irritated huff and move to step away.
But before I can, Colson’s leg flies up and he plants his boot against the edge of my desk with a thud, blocking my path. I flinch and then slowly turn to meet his gaze.
He gives a nod to my desk, “Sit down, Brett.”
“Stop telling me what to do,” I glare down at him, “you’re a fucking control freak and you can’t stand when someone tells you no.”