Page 210 of Heart So Hollow

I crack a smile, relieved that Bowen sounds like himself despite the events of last night.

ME (5:56PM): Very much. ETA?

BOWEN (5:57PM): En route. What are you doing?

ME (5:58PM): Finished a bike ride and sitting in the driveway. Probably take a shower. How far away?

BOWEN (5:58PM): Wait for me

ME (5:58PM): Hurryyyyyyyyyyy

My mood adequately improved, I finally work up enough motivation to exit the car and make my way to the house. I leave my bike strapped to the hatch since the weather is supposed to be nice again tomorrow.

As expected, as soon as I flip the light switch inside the door, I hear the jingle of Waylon’s tags. He lumbers over to the foyer and gives a welcoming sniff before returning to his bed in the living room. I slip off my sneakers, drop my work tote next to the door, and carry my duffel bag down the hallway toward the bedroom.

When I step through the bedroom door, I notice it’s darker than usual, especially for the hour. I drop my bag against the wall and take a few steps inside, immediately noticing the blackout curtains are drawn. I stand a few feet from the edge of the bed, staring at the windows. To anyone else, it would be nothing. But in a house with two people who have very specific routines and idiosyncrasies, the drawn curtains mean something.

They should still be open.

A jolt of adrenaline ripples from my chest down to my stomach, radiating in a tingle through my limbs. The hair on the back of my neck stands up.

Intuition…

I take a step toward the window and reach for the curtain when, suddenly, the bedroom door slams shut. The bang pierces my eardrums like a nail in a coffin, casting me into darkness.

When I spin around, the pitch-black silhouette of a tall figure grows larger and larger as it closes the space between us. Before I can move, the figure slams into my chest. He grabs me around the waist and throws me onto the bed so violently, the frame sounds like it’ll crack in two.

It all happens in an instant, but it feels like time is slowing down. I land on my side, bouncing on the mattress only once before flipping over and trying to leap off the bed. I only get to the edge before he grabs my calf. My fingertips burn as they zip down the comforter as he jerks me back down the bed. Catching my breath, the screams finally explode from my lungs as I swing my arms and try to grab the headboard, but only succeed in sweeping the lamp and books off the nightstand with a crash.

I try to scramble away, but he jerks my leg and I’m flat on my stomach again. He grabs the back of my bicep, fingers digging into my flesh, and violently flips me onto my back. He’s a black shadow filling my entire field of vision, the hood of his sweatshirt obscuring his face until it’s nothing but a black void with no discernable features. It smells of musty cotton, like it’s been wadded up in a garage and forgotten for months.

He plants his knees on either side of my hips, sinking down on top of me and pressing me into the mattress. I thrust my hips into the air, bending my knees and digging my heels in while flexing my back and glutes as hard as I can.

As long as I can move, I still have a chance.

My upper body strength is shit compared to his, but my legs and back are strong. Even though I’m smaller, I’m holding nearly all his body weight on my hips. But it doesn’t last. He wraps his arm around my torso and jerks me up into the air. My feet slip out from under me and I land with a bounce onto my back, the full weight of his body sinking on top of me. He knows how to fight, and I don’t.

I don’t know what I’m screaming—words, obscenities, gibberish? Whatever it is, it comes bursting out of me with every ounce of air I have.

Where is Bowen? He should be arriving at any moment. If I can keep fighting, keep whatever is going to happen from happening just long enough, Bowen will come home and I’ll be OK.

Bowen will kill him.

I manage to flail and twist my body enough to turn over on my stomach, but the bed might as well be quicksand. With nothing to grab onto except a loose blanket and sheets, he grabs my waist and easily drags me back across the mattress, my shirt rolling up to my chest as I go. He plants his knees on either side of my hips again and, this time, pin my legs to the mattress with his shins. He catches one of my wrists as my arms flail and twists it behind my back. It’s not long before he grabs the other one.

I’m stuck. I can’t move.

Everything goes still, and the only sounds are my wheezy shrieks and Waylon barking outside the door. He hasn’t said a word or made a sound the entire time. He’s like a ghost with infinite energy.

After a few eerily quiet moments, he slowly adjusts his grip, squeezing my wrists with one hand to free up the other. His body shifts to one side and then he leans forward and reaches over my head. My eyes adjust to the darkness enough to see him gently lay a black handgun on the bed about a foot from my nose.

My entire body shakes, my head trembling as his arm retracts out of view. A moment later I feel his palm on my sweaty skin, slowly running down the center of my exposed back. He pauses at the waistband of my shorts before he lifts his hand and I hear the familiar jingle of a belt buckle and zip of the leather as he pulls it through his belt loops.

The sound unleashes a torrent of panic in me and I start fighting again and struggling against his iron grip.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no…I would rather die.

All I see is the stark silhouette of the gun laying on the white bedspread, right in front of my face. And, out of nowhere, Colson’s voice pops into my head.

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