Page 124 of Heart So Hollow

“Yeah, well, congratulations,” I snip, “you happened to me, too. And if I’d known what would happen by setting foot in that house, I would’ve listened to my gut the first time you treated me like shit.”

“Is that why you finally decided to give me the time of day,” Colson tips his chin, “because you’re a glutton for punishment?”

“Sometimes I don’t know why I talk to you,” I sigh.

“You don’t?” He says it like he already knows the answer, in a patronizing tone that makes me want to slap him. He’s getting under my skin, and he knows it.

“Brett,” Colson glances at his watch and moves to stand, “you and I are more similar than you’d like to admit.” He strolls around to the front of my desk and plants his hands on the edge of the wood veneer, “You did listen to your gut that night. And I bet you’re still a sucker for some pain.” He grins and looks me up and down, sending a tremor deep through my stomach, “You probably still have the marks to prove it.”

I clench my jaw in shock. How can someone with such bright and vibrant eyes be so diabolical?

Why is he doing this? And why do I feel anything other than blind hatred for him right now? I don’t need him coming in here and wrecking my life—again. But there’s no way I’ll ever let him see that he’s getting to me.

I lower my voice and glare up at him, “You need to stop.”

Colson gives a slight shake of his head, “You know I’ll never stop. I’ve had you out on loan long enough, Sorensen. I’ve come to collect.”

The way he looks at me makes my blood go cold. After a moment, he slowly straightens up and turns toward the door. His footsteps sound so much louder, magnified by the tension stifling the room.

He starts to leave, but pauses and turns around, “Oh, by the way,” he taps the doorframe, “that wasn’t salted caramel in your latte,” he winks before disappearing into the dim hallway.

I stare at the empty space, frozen, listening to my heart pounding. My eyes dart to the paper coffee cup, nearly empty now. A faint ringing gets steadily louder in my ears as I taste the sweet and acidic bite of the coffee on my tongue.

No. He’s a fucking liar.

I fly from my chair and march down the hallway, down the stairs, and all the way to the break room. I stop abruptly in front of the fancy coffee machine in the corner and scan the labels over each button. My stomach drops as I read each one: Espresso, dark roast, decaf, cappuccino, latte macchiato, iced coffee. Just like always.

I whip around and search the countertop catty-corner to the machine, where all the cups and stirrers and extra coffee additives are crowded together in a disorganized jumble. There are a couple of containers of French vanilla and hazelnut powder creamers and four bottles of Torani syrup—vanilla, chocolate, pumpkin spice, and caramel.

I give a hard stare at the caramel, then scrunch up my nose and hard swallow, pushing the bile back down. I can’t prove anything. It could just be the syrup.

It’s probably the syrup.

But now I can’t tell for sure. I can’t tell if it’s Colson getting in my head or if it’s something else that lingers ominously on my palate.

???

“Babe,” Bowen calls from the closet, “come here.”

I round the doorway to see Bowen standing at the dresser. He’s holding two folded long-sleeved shirts and staring into one of his drawers. When I peek around his arm, I see my grey Lake George hoodie neatly folded at the bottom of the drawer.

I turn to Bowen, stunned, “Where did that come from?”

He shrugs, “Must’ve gotten mixed in with my stuff.” He pulls the sweatshirt out and hands it to me

before shutting the drawer.

I wait for Bowen to finish dressing and leave the closet before I carefully examine the sweatshirt. I should be happy, but it feels like a cursed relic in my hands. I know I saw it at the bottom of the tote in Hannah’s closet; there’s only one, with Navy blue block letters and a small grease stain near the right cuff. I raise the sweatshirt and press it to my nose, inhaling the cotton. It smells of our detergent and our fabric softener, like it’s been nestled in Bowen’s drawer for months. I can’t explain it. And I can’t ask Bowen about it without admitting to my own indiscretions.

Turning on my heel, I scurry from the closet and whip around the corner to the vanity. As soon as I tug open the third drawer down, my breath catches. My earrings—the gold hoops with the dangling stars—are laying neatly among the others. I jerk my head to the doorway and then back to the vanity. They were gone. Bowen even saw they were gone. And now they’re not.

This doesn’t do anything but destroy the false sense of security I managed to regain over the weekend. Now it’s Monday morning and, in an instant, I’m just as wound up as I was on Thursday afternoon after that creepy conversation with Colson—when he gave me tainted coffee.

I know he did. He admitted it, didn’t he? But that’s what he does, he doesn’t come right out and say things. Instead, he just waits and watches and revels in other people’s blissful ignorance until he picks the right time to strike. Just like he did back in college when he snuck into my room and…

I should’ve just told Barrett about it that night at dinner. But I didn’t, because then I would have to tell her other things that I’ve managed to keep nicely hidden away for three—nearly four years. As much as I want to, I can’t ignore Colson forever, just like I can’t ignore my belongings disappearing and reappearing at will in my closet.

But if Hannah actually brought my stuff back, why would she replace it exactly where she found it? It’s too…polite, especially for her. Bowen should’ve gotten our key back from Hildy, but I don’t put anything past Hannah anymore. Locks and keys don’t always stop people with obsessive tendencies. I should feel secure in this house, with a man who’s extremely protective of his space, but I don’t.

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