Page 209 of Heart So Hollow

Finally, Dave arches his brow, muttering to himself, “Maybe I’m not making myself clear,” he takes a breath and clasps his hands, “Colson said the keypad on the server room was operational after it was repaired, but Army’s saying they never received an updated report verifying the down time and when the system came back online. So, now we have them and their cybersecurity people screaming bloody murder, and if we don’t get that report to them yesterday, we’ll be in breach of contract.”

My eyes fly open, “Oh, yes!” I exclaim louder than I mean to, startling Casey, “I tried to run a new report same day, but the system wasn’t updating, so I had to call Tony in IT. He said he needed to run a software patch and it would work, but then I totally forgot to run it again. I’m so sorry, I’ll do it and send it out immediately.” I’m also talking much faster than I mean to.

“I told you,” Eric mutters to Dave, “they’re redundant systems. We could’ve just sent them the backup log for the entire zone…”

“Ah!” Dave exclaims, “Very good. Casey got the initial call from their people, so she’s been running around tracking down all the information. When she talked to Nate, he said he’d also had problems with running reports for other areas. So, here we are.”

“I—I’m very sorry,” I stammer, “that’s so embarrassing.” Maybe if I act humiliated enough, Dave will just want me out of his office, as if much acting is required, “Please don’t fire me.”

Dave rolls his eyes and swivels back around to his computer, “Brett, have I fired anyone today?”

“I don’t know...”

“No,” Dave shoots me an annoyed look, “I haven’t. So why would I start with you?”

Great, now I can go back to my office and die of a heart attack.

“Thank you,” I slowly rise from my chair, “I’ll do it right now.”

Thank God I clam up during stressful situations instead of not being able to shut up. I practically run back to my office with tunnel vision, hyper-focused on the task at hand until I press Send and shoot off an email with five attachments, seven recipients, and two paragraphs of way more information and detail than anyone probably wants.

After saving my job and avoiding devastating humiliation, I sit back in my chair and notice the crinkled white paper sticking out of the top of my bag. I reach down and pluck it out, unfolding it to take another look at 18-year-old Colson glaring menacingly at the camera.

If he were to be arrested for anything, I guess this would be it.

Maybe he just got better at his craft…

All the same, his voice keeps repeating the same words over and over in my head.

“Maybe you should ask Bowen what he knows about me.”

But I can’t have this conversation over text. I need to calm down, gather myself, and think about what I’m going to say. I’ll ask Bowen about him later tonight, after I get home.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Brett

One Year Ago

Wind in my face and sweat dripping from every pore should be soothing, especially when the air starts to chill as evening approaches. I even ride this particular loop a second time, adding 45 minutes to my total time. But I can’t concentrate. No matter how hard I push or how high my heartrate gets, I can’t quell the anxiety.

My mind is still reeling from my last conversation with Colson.

Who was Colson stalking and why? He obviously knows Bowen, and presumably Bowen knows him. He painted Emily’s name across the wall and shredded a photo from high school. Everyone except Evie…

None of it makes sense. Dire Ridge is 45 minutes from Canaan, and neither Colson or Bowen have ever given any indication that they know anyone in either place.

I shift my Tahoe into park and sit for a moment, gazing out the windshield at the blue sky over the roof, stars beginning to come into view. Even though I took my time on the bike ride and driving home, Bowen’s truck is still gone, and I don’t want to go into an empty house. Technically, I won’t be alone, but Waylon doesn’t care about my problems unless it means I’ll lay down on the floor next to him and scratch his head, which isn’t totally out of the question.

I wish Bowen was here. I wish his headlights would flood through my windows and he’d pull up next to me, we’d go inside, and I can spend the rest of the evening on the sofa with him, laying on his chest with one leg slung over his hip, just like on any other night—before my house turned into a scene from one of the horrors on my bookshelf.

I pick up my phone and shoot off a text to Bowen.

ME (5:54PM): Please say you’re on your way home.

I wait in the driver’s seat, my elbow on the edge of the open window, listening to the crickets and tree frogs begin their twilight chorus. I breathe in the sweet, dried grass smell and stare at my phone, waiting impatiently. Finally, it vibrates in response.

BOWEN (5:56PM): Why? Excited to see me?

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