Page 217 of Heart So Hollow

I got into medical school, by the way. But you already know that. I didn’t know until I contacted a few of the attendings I interviewed with to ask what I could do to improve my application for next year. Imagine how shocked I was to find out that I DID get in, but none of them ever received a response, so they gave my offer to someone else.

I know you did something, whether I have proof or not. Just like it was you who isolated me and ruined the few friendships I had after college. Just like it was you who gave me fake sugar pills from fuck knows where instead of my medication. Just like it was you who dragged me across the lawn in the middle of the night by my hair and locked me in the barn for an entire day. Just like it was you who told your family I was losing my mind. Just like it was you who gaslighted me every minute of every day. And just like it was you who told me if I ever tried to run away, no one would believe me and you would use our relationship against me in the worst way possible.

I will never be a Garrison, because becoming one means a fate worse than death.

You need to leave me alone. Leave me alone and do not ever contact me again. If I hear from you one more time, I’m going straight to a judge for a restraining order. I know I can’t do it in Canaan, where your family’s name is above the law. But I can do it in Hellbranch. I decided to contact Tyler after so long and make things right with her. It turns out I still have people too, and you and your family’s corruption can’t reach me here.

This letter is more than you deserve and probably serves more as an effort to seek closure for myself. And to add insult to injury, I have nothing to my name except what I could grab when I left. I had to leave most everything I own, which includes all my books. You used to tell me how cool it was that I liked hard copies of books instead of electronic ones. Was it because you knew it would be harder for me to take them with me when I had to choose whether to run or die in your house?

Maybe you can read my books on nights when you can’t sleep. You should get through them pretty quickly because I don’t know how you CAN sleep at night.

Maybe you’ll find yourself in them, Bowen, a predator who lies in wait, watching and learning how to draw your prey in. And by the time they realize it, you’ve already drained the life out of them, making them so weak that they can’t fight back. You’re a narcissist, a sociopath, a monster with no emotions, no heart, and no soul.

I hope you rot in hell.

Emily

CHAPTER SIXTY

Brett

One Year Ago

The silence in the house is deafening. Emily’s words are deafening.

“Maybe you can read my books on nights when you can’t sleep.”

I lift my eyes and scan the bookshelf across from me, filled with not only my books, but ones that were here before I arrived. Not Hildy’s books, but Emily’s, retained and carefully curated props in a house of cards.

Worked on you, didn’t it? Bowen’s words echo in my mind.

I carefully fold the letter and gently replace it in the envelope like it’s a bomb. I wonder if Hildy would still be so pissed off about the whole situation if she knew about the second page of this letter. Reading Emily’s words feels like she’s describing my own problems with uncanny accuracy…

Tucking the letter back inside the envelope, I pull out the two photos. One is a picture of Bowen and Emily in Hildy’s backyard. Emily is sitting on the tailgate of Bowen’s truck and he’s standing in front of her between her legs. She wraps her arms around his shoulders while he turns and kisses her cheek. I flip to the next one and, instantly, the air feels like it’s been sucked out of the room.

It's a selfie. Emily is sitting on Bowen’s lap, his chin resting on her shoulder while she beams at the camera and holds up her hand. Her fingers are splayed out, drawing attention to one particular accessory. On her finger is a cushion teal sapphire with pave set diamonds along the gold band.

The same ring. My ring.

I look down at my finger and my stomach drops. Feeling sicker the longer I stare at it, I grab the band and tug at the ring, ripping it from my finger. Rising from the floor, I make my way to the kitchen island and drop the ring on the counter, biting back more tears that I thought ran out hours ago. Turning away from yet another proverbial stab in the heart, I slide the photos—which probably came from a couple of the frames on this wall—back into the envelope and turn it over. And, when I do, I see a single name with no accompanying return address.

Emily Fox.

I pause halfway back to the box, my heart pounding.

“Don’t let the fox guard the hen house, even if the fox is really good looking.”

Bowen’s goddamn tattoo…

Kneeling down next to the box, I hesitate, and then in a split-second decision, turn and shove the envelope into my bag by the wall. Then I pick up the white trash bag, unroll it, and peek inside.

At first, it doesn’t look like anything, but when I reach in, I realize it’s a shirt—or what’s left of one. The heather grey, long-sleeved t-shirt is worn and incredibly dirty, covered in dust and stained with large black splotches, like smears of charcoal. When I unfold it to get a better look, I cringe and drop the shirt back onto the bag.

“What the—”

The stench is subtle, but it’s strong enough that I can’t ignore it. It smells like death.

Turning my hands over, I look at my palms with disgust, the black charcoal splotches having left smears over my skin before I start compulsively wiping my hands down my jeans. Swallowing hard, I gather the shirt and the bag and drop both back into the box, my heart beating harder with every passing moment.

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