Page 219 of Heart So Hollow

She takes a step toward me, her shoulders rigid and fists clenched, “Give me the box!” she barks, screwing up her face in rage.

This time, Hannah doesn’t wait for me to comply. She lunges forward and grabs for the sides of the box. I slam into her with my shoulder, trying to shove past her and make a run for the door, but she grabs my bicep, jerking me around and knocking the box from my grip. My bag slides from my shoulder and lands with a thud next to it.

Blind with rage, she comes at me again, grabbing a fistful of my hair and pulling me to the ground. Screaming and cursing her, I grab her wrist and start jerking her from side to side until we both tumble onto the floor. Flailing my legs, I try to keep moving so she can’t climb on top of me. She manages to grab onto me sideways and wrench my head back, raining down blows on my shoulders as I try to cover my head. Taking a chance, I throw my elbow back and catch her in the jaw.

She lets out a scream, and as soon as I feel her fingers loosen, I pull my head away and roll over, swinging my leg over her torso. I grab her hair and crouch over her, bringing my fist down over and over.

“You!” Punch “Fucking!” Punch “Bitch!” Punch “What kind of woman are you?” I scream at her, expelling all the air from my lungs as I rain down blows on her head and neck.

Get out. Now.

Climbing over Hannah, I grab the strap of my bag and hoist it over my shoulder. Suddenly, she grabs my ankle and I stumble forward, falling halfway back onto the floor. Kicking frantically, I scramble across the floor and tear through the kitchen out the garage door. As soon as I touch the driver’s side handle, the Tahoe unlocks and I throw both bags inside, terrified that I’ll see Hannah only feet behind me.

I slam the door, lock it, and start the ignition as fast as I can. Seconds later, I’m skidding around the gravel in a three-point-turn before finally gunning the engine down the driveway. When I look in the rearview mirror, Hannah’s SUV is still sitting in the driveway, but she’s still nowhere in sight.

As soon as I’m on pavement, hitting 50, I take a breath and reel back, slamming my fist down on top of the wheel.

I left the box. I can’t believe I left the box.

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

Brett

Present

“It’s been a week. How do you feel?” Judy asks while she sips tea from a chunky ceramic mug with pink snails all over it.

It looks like it was handmade by a child—at least the snails, anyway—hand-thrown with flat cutouts of dusty pink glazed snails pressed unevenly into the sides. For some reason, the longer I stare at it, the more excited I get, like something really big is about to happen.

I can’t hold back my smile, “I don’t know what kind of voodoo shit you’re into, but whatever you did last week changed everything. I just feel…different.”

“That’s so wonderful,” she beams, “we can’t erase the past, but sometimes all you need is a way to take the edge off—step outside all the chaos, if you will—so your mind has the space to heal.”

I let out a snort and nearly descend into uncontrollable laughter at her uncanny response.

“Give me an example,” she peers at me over the lip of her mug, “how do you feel different?”

“I went out on the trails by myself—completely alone. I shouldn’t have, but I did.”

“Why not?”

“You should never go out into the wilds by yourself, and I’ve always known that. You can get lost, hurt, or attacked. But I don’t know…” I can’t explain the serenity that’s replaced the crippling anxiety, “this time, I didn’t feel like I was being watched anymore. I didn’t feel like I would turn around and see him. But…” I hesitate, the gnawing feeling still there, if only in the background, “I know I’ll see him again, just not right now.”

“In that case, what will you do when you see him again?”

I hesitate, because I’m not sure what to say. I know what I want to say. But I don’t, because if I tell her the truth, I know she’ll try to talk me out of it.

???

The next time I open my eyes it’s morning, and I’m lying in bed, sprawled out on my back. It’s light in my bedroom, which seems odd at first. I always draw the curtains—always. But I’m relieved to wake up in the light after hearing the strange sounds outside last night. Nothing is ever as frightening in the daylight.

My muscles feel stiff, like I haven’t moved all night, but for some reason, I don’t feel like getting up. I blink, trying to wake up as my eyes glide across the ceiling, to the dresser, past the sliding glass door. But in an instant, they dart back to the window.

Because the monster is staring back at me.

He’s at my sliding glass door, standing square in the middle of the frame, watching me. His dark silhouette blocks out the morning light, tall, broad, and strong. And those eyes.

The devil’s eyes.

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