Page 259 of Heart So Hollow

BOWEN (7:26AM): Your outlet’s fixed

ME (7:28AM): Thanks. I appreciate you coming over, but you shouldn’t have been hanging out in my kitchen in the dark and then prevented me from leaving when I had basically no clothes on. And you trying to touch me wasn’t cool, either.

BOWEN (7:31AM): You know I’d never try to make you uncomfortable.

ME (7:52AM): And why were you asking me weird questions about Brett and Colson?

BOWEN (8:01AM): Because I know you’re lying to me

ME (8:05AM): I’m not aware of anything going on. But if you’re worried about Colson, you need to talk to her about it, not me.

ME (8:06AM): I’m going to tell Brett about this.

BOWEN (8:18AM): You should

I’ll lie to Bowen all day, because he’s not my best friend—a fact that was conveniently erased from our conversation. No wonder Brett thinks I’m a lying sack of shit. But how…

Then it hits me while I stare at the time stamp above the picture. I know what he did. I know what he fucking did. He had my phone that one evening. He could see anything he wanted, send anything he wanted, and erase anything he wanted…

And now all I can think about is Brett telling me about Hannah and how she’s afraid of Bowen now. I should’ve pressed, but I didn’t because I didn’t want to seem overprotective, but I should have. Some people might’ve glossed over everything and given him the benefit of the doubt.

“I didn’t see it happen.”

“He wouldn’t do that.”

“I don’t have proof.”

But I have seen it, all too often. I’ve seen what happens when people ignore the signs. People aren’t resilient; they do what they need to survive and later the trauma comes out in my office in the form of anxiety, attachment disorders, and post-traumatic stress.

And now Brett’s in that house, with Bowen, and there’s no way for me to know if she’s OK. I have to get her to talk to me, I have to warn her before it’s too late, and I won’t stop until I do.

???

Emotions are high and I have a wedding to attend in Detroit over the weekend, so I decide to let the dust settle more before trying to reach out again. But it seems I don’t have to, because Tuesday afternoon, I get a text from Brett.

BRETT (3:48PM): I need you.

I stare at it for the longest time. Such a short phrase, but its placement in the midst of such chaos gives it more meaning than any other three words strung together.

ME (3:59PM): I’ll be home by 5:15

Brett’s on my porch at 5:00. When I glance out the peephole, she looks completely normal. But when I open the door, she suddenly deflates and doesn’t even look like herself. Her face is puffy and she looks exhausted. She’s lugging a tote and a duffel bag that looks like it’s stuffed to the gills.

She’s staring at the bottom of the door, and as soon as I open it, her eyes dart up to me with a look of alarm, like she was startled by a loud noise.

I furrow my brow at her state, “What the hell happened to you?”

She lowers her eyes again and trudges through my front door into the muted lilac foyer, looking like a tweaked-out zombie. The last time she set foot here seems like a lifetime ago. This is so unexpected that I don’t even know where to start. But I don’t have to decide, because when Brett opens her mouth, it all comes spilling out in one, long stream of consciousness—the assault, the texts, the book disappearing...

Good God, her entire book…

In some ways, this is more disturbing than hearing about Bowen attacking her. I’m not shocked when I hear things like that, anyone can snap and physically lash out if they’re angry enough. But destroying her book is so diabolical. It takes effort and planning to inflict that kind of psychological damage. It tore away a chunk of her identity, something she worked so hard on for so long.

Brett goes on about the box in the closet, Colson and his sister, the letter from Bowen’s ex, the filthy clothes, the hair, the engagement ring, Hannah showing up, the resignation email, the spyware on her phone...

She babbles on to the very end, until she’s out of breath and collapses against the wall. The only sounds I can hear now are airy sobs clicking in the back of her throat. I throw my arms around her, holding her in a bear hug as we slide down the wall to the floor.

“Why did he have to do this?” Brett wails in an agonizing scream of despair, “Why did he have to be like this?”

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