Page 190 of Heart So Hollow

I turn to the window and rap a few lyrics at Valerie, “Sorry,” I giggle before refocusing my attention, “I like this song.”

She doesn’t seem as mirthful as I am right now. In fact, she looks downright unsettled for someone whose vehicle hasn’t been in the shop for two days. I glance over her shoulder at her SUV, shiny white in the blazing summer sun, and then turn back to her.

“Anyway, his type…” I take a deep breath and rest my elbow on the edge of the window, “redheads,” I deadpan.

Valerie stares at me intently, waiting for me to say more, “Redheads?”

“Redheads,” I repeat, “it doesn’t matter what kind—light, dark, long, short, ginger, tan…but it’s a double-edged sword. If you’re a redhead, he loves you to death—literally.”

She furrows her brow and glances across the parking lot, “And if not?”

I hesitate for a moment and then lean forward, lowering my voice, “Then you’re either a knowing accomplice or unknowing dupe.”

It’s just as well that Valerie can’t see my eyes behind my tortoise shell sunglasses, because otherwise she might just grow antlers and turn into a real deer in headlights in the middle of the Toyota dealership.

“Well,” I jerk the gearshift into drive, “talk to you soon!” I flash her a smile and pull away, leaving her still standing in front of the service department.

Cranking up my playlist, I give Fred Durst all I have until I hit the freeway and then begin to relax and let my mind wander. For someone who recognized me as Brett Sorensen the author, it’s kind of odd that Valerie never really asked about my book—just that one comment when we met on the day she listened to the Spice Ghouls podcast. Then again, there were other things going on, like her smashing into my bumper. Plus, she probably had other things on her mind before that.

Forty-five minutes later, I’m finally pulling into the gravel drive flanked by two junipers. I park the 4Runner out front, and as soon as I reach the front door, my eye catches a small box sitting at the bottom of the oak door. It’s a run-of-the-mill brown cardboard box, but there’s no shipping label on it—or any label, for that matter.

I stare at it for a few moments before jerking my head up and looking around, doing a scan of the property from the porch. All I see is the vast span of trees across the lawn and the empty driveway that leads to the road. I’m still alone here, as far as I can see. Slowly, I reach down and grab the box, no bigger than my hand. It feels empty, but as soon as I turn it over, I feel something slide across the inside.

Once safely inside the house, I immediately start tearing open the seams of the box, dumping the contents out into my open hand.

There’s only one thing inside—a flash drive.

It’s generic, black, and otherwise normal looking, but I know whatever’s on it is probably anything but normal.

I rush down the hall to my office, collapsing into the chair in front of my computer. But I hesitate before popping the flash drive into my port. What if it’s a virus that infects my machine and deletes everything I have? It’s not an irrational fear…

But that seems pretty basic for such a specific item left at my door. Whatever’s on it is clearly meant to be viewed by me, I just don’t know if I actually want to view it. No, that’s a lie—I’d rather dip my hands in sulfuric acid right now than find out what’s on this flash drive. But I have to.

Gathering my wits, I plug it into the port and wait for it to register in my file explorer. When it finally does, I steel myself and click on the folder, preparing for whatever hell is about to fill my screen.

But when it does, it’s not a threatening note or a grainy video of one of my loved ones being held for ransom in a basement somewhere. It’s a Word file labeled with my name. I hesitate for a moment while I try to steady my breathing. Once it’s calm, I double-click the file and wait for it to open.

When it does, I have to blink a few times to register what I’m seeing. It’s a threat, plain as day, but not the kind I expect.

My eyes move down the screen to the page count, and then the word count. I stare at the first page for a few seconds before my index finger starts scrolling at lightning speed, rage building with every page my eyes skim. Finally, I stand up, my fists clenched and chest heaving. I whip out my phone and tap the icon for my security cameras, searching the list for the feed pointed at the front door.

But when I tap it, the image is black with the word Disconnected at the bottom. Then I notice my phone is using data rather than Wifi.

With a frustrated growl, I crouch down next to my desk to check the router plugged into the wall. The red light is on instead of the green, so I flip the power off, wait a minute or so, and then turn it back on. It doesn’t connect. I do it another three times with no effect before storming out of my office to the front door.

But, as soon as I grab the knob, I freeze. I don’t know if I want to see what’s on the other side of this door, but I have to know. I have to know what I’m dealing with.

Your hypervigilance is a trauma response. It’s what your brain does to keep you safe.

I let go of the knob and turn around, heading back down the hall to the bedroom. I jerk open the drawer of my birch side table and reach inside, retrieving a black Glock in a black leather holster.

Just like his.

I tuck the holster in the back of my cutoff shorts, clipping it to the soft polyester maternity waistband, and pull my shirt down over it. I’ll have to relocate it by the time the baby is born. But, by then, none of this will matter. I won’t need it anymore.

Now armed, I tug open the front door and step out onto the porch. It’s still an ordinary summer day. The sun is shining, the heat at its peak, and the property is teeming with wildlife, still as active as ever. I’m the only one with a problem, now stalking back down the driveway toward the road. And when I reach it, I find what I’m looking for.

Next to one of the junipers guarding the entrance to my driveway is the pole that connects our electricity and internet to a series of smaller poles leading through the trees up to the house. I stare up at it for a few moments and then let my eyes fall down to the ground, searching until I see the wire laying neatly across the grass.

---