Page 291 of Heart So Hollow

I can hear Barrett chuckling into the phone. Meanwhile, my heart is beating out of my chest. How can she be so calm?

“OK,” she says as she catches her breath, “so, it’s not illegal for him to put a GPS on a car that he owns, so I couldn’t say much about that. But get this, last night, I get another knock on my door and it’s two Columbus police officers. And that’s not all—there were five cruisers, lights flashing, sitting out front, blocking my street. They had officers surrounding the house. I’m shocked there wasn’t a helicopter.”

“Oh my god…” I murmur, staring wide-eyed across the floor.

“It was great, they put us all in separate cars, questioned us…freaking El Chapo on Hibernia…” she trails off with another chuckle, “it was bonkers.”

“But why were they all there?”

“I don’t know what else Bowen told them, but he reported your Tahoe as stolen and gave them the last location from the GPS before I turned it off. That’s how they knew where to find it. But as soon as I explained to them why he reported your car as stolen and that I knew you were safe and I could get you on the phone if they wanted, they backed off. They don’t like being jerked around by other agencies and getting dragged into small-town drama. There’s too much murder in this city for that. But they did me a favor and took your Tahoe when they left, so I didn’t even have to figure out what to do with it.”

That part makes me smile. “Well, that’s a relief. I wouldn’t want to take up your garage space longer than necessary, so are you all OK?”

“Oh, yeah,” Barrett chirps, “just another Friday night on Hibernia! At least it gave the neighbors a show. Bowen might be good, but he’s not that good. You still have people in your foxhole…”

Bowen’s not that good, but he once was. Barrett’s right, my only saving grace is that I still have people in my foxhole, despite his best efforts.

Yeah…a trauma therapist and a stalker.

Still, other women haven’t been as lucky. Emily wasn’t as lucky. And Evie did have people—like Colson—but it didn’t matter…

After Barrett promises to call me when she leaves work, I set down my phone—now black instead of Drunk Tank Pink—and stare out the window toward the lake, feeling the silence.

Really feeling the silence.

And as I breathe, the oxygen gives birth to a spark, igniting something in the pit of my stomach. A slow burn begins and the events of the last year—not even one year—play over in my mind. I don’t know how long I sit there, staring out the window in a catatonic state. But when the reel ends, my fingers itch and there’s only one thing on my mind.

I set down my coffee cup and disappear into the spare bedroom, returning with my work bag—or what used to be my work bag. I dig out my worn-out copy of The Outsiders with its cracked spine and feathery dog-eared pages and begin leisurely flipping through it. I don’t know what I’m looking for. Maybe nothing. But when I finally get to the end, I begin reading a little slower.

Johnny and Dally saving all the kids from the fire. Johnny dying, Dally dying…Ponyboy left to pick up the pieces of his misunderstood friends, their voices drowned out by bias, misinformation, and lies. Ponyboy deciding he’s going to tell their side of the story.

Ponyboy…

Pony…

I set down the book and reach into my bag again, this time retrieving my laptop and nestling it into my lap. Then I open a blank document and stare at the blinking cursor for a few minutes.

Tell your story.

When I put my fingers to the keys, the floodgates open and everything comes spilling out. My fingers remain there for days because there’s nothing else to do, and it all has to come out somehow.

If the legends were true, I was on a journey to find monsters in the hills of Guernsey County...

Because, in the end, Colson was right. He and I are the same—we both ran away, woke up in Canada, and couldn’t let it go.

CHAPTER EIGHTY

Colson

Present

Brett will tell you she looks rough, that the morning sickness drained the life from her and she struggles for the energy she used to have. And maybe she does feel rough, but it won’t last.

She looks even better, if that’s possible. I don’t know what she’s complaining about. It’s like every curve she had before she got pregnant got more pronounced and any extra weight she gains goes straight to her tits and ass. It takes all I have not to tell her to shut the hell up, but I won’t minimize her feelings, because I’m the one she confides in, and it’s going to stay that way.

She’s changed a lot over the last year, like how she doesn’t avoid her problems anymore. Part of it came from spending two hours a week in a therapist’s office, but I think the other part came from becoming a mom. There’s also the fact that she can’t avoid me anymore, either.

I’ve changed, too. It’s hard not to when I’ve also had to spend two hours a week with a shrink. It wasn’t voluntary, at least in the traditional sense. It was a promise I made to Barrett, of all people—under duress.

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