Page 306 of Heart So Hollow

“Brett!” Dallas shrieks, encasing her in a massive hug, “Oh my god, are you OK?”

“Yes,” Brett’s muffled voice can barely be heard beneath Dallas’s body, “I promise we’re all fine,” she laughs, pulling Dallas back to look at her.

“Is the little sprout OK?” Dallas moves her hands down to Brett’s belly, her big dark eyes wide with worry. It cracks me up how frazzled she can look when I know what she’s capable of.

Brett nods, resting her hands on top of Dallas’s, “Totally fine,” she smiles reassuringly, “I just want to get out of here, I don’t want to have to stay overnight…” she grumbles with a roll of her eyes.

“We can stay, we’ll stay until you go home,” suddenly, Dallas’s eyes go dark, “don’t you ever do that to me again!” she snaps.

Brett shoots her an incredulous look, “I don’t plan on it, Dallas!” she scoffs.

Alex grabs me and pulls me to him, clenching the back of my shirt in his fists. You’d never know it now, but he’s always been the empath, watching out for everyone even when we weren’t watching out for ourselves. Nothing derails him; he always comes through and he’ll always do whatever it takes to keep us all safe.

“Crazy motherfucking gringo…” Alex laments into my shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” I say sarcastically, squeezing him back, “did you forget who you’re married to?”

He lets out a haggard breath next to my head, but doesn’t let go, and neither do I. Because I know, even if just for a moment, he thought he’d lost another piece of his family. I promised him when I came back that it wouldn’t happen, and it didn’t.

After a few moments I pull back, “This part wasn’t even my idea,” I give a nod to the hospital bed, “take it up with the crazy motherfucking gringa.”

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

Brett

Two Weeks Later

I never truly understood what Colson meant when he talked about sharing a pulse and a heartbeat with the earth. That is, until I stepped into the woods with Bowen at Salt Fork. The fear and exhilaration I felt on that ridgetop above the waterfall woke me up from a slumber where I was trying to hide from the past. I felt it that day, my heart quite literally beating out of my chest with the rocks under my hands and the sun on my face. I thought I’d found Colson again—in someone else. But it wasn’t him. The Laurel Ridge Trail wasn’t just the Laurel Ridge Trail with its sandstone boulders and waterfalls; Laurel Ridge was the starting line of a gauntlet.

But, this time, there’s a survivor.

I’m no smarter than anyone else. Maybe luckier, only because each day is comprised of chance moments that we either notice or don’t and use the signs and specks of knowledge hidden in them…or don’t.

When Colson brings me home this time, it’s different than the first. I’m not running, I’m not hiding, and there’s no one chasing me, trying to hunt me down to keep their secrets. And, now, when a white vehicle rolls up the long, gravel drive, I know it’s Dallas and Alex and not a specter from my past lurking between the ponderosas and stabbing knives into my door.

The deep gouge is still there, a subtle line marking the moment the ghost revealed itself. It might just stay there, because as horrible as some memories are, they still shouldn’t be forgotten. Colson sits next to me on the loveseat, my legs stretched across his lap while he plants one of his boots straight ahead on the railing of the front porch. And, this time, he’s not preventing me from leaving.

I’ll never leave, because this is my home—he is my home.

His head rests on the back of the cushion, eyes closed, stroking the top of my thigh back and forth like a metronome. I’m almost finished reading the latest article about the tiny Midwestern towns covered in goldenrod and petunias that unwittingly gave birth to this trail of carnage. I’m sure social media is going off the rails, but I’m maintaining my blackout in favor of local journalism—and my sanity. It’ll be there when I return. For now, Barrett sends me updates she knows I’ll appreciate and counts down the days until my due date when she’ll come stay for a week.

Eventually, the events surrounding all of us will be picked apart and analyzed—the parts we let people know, anyway. In true irony, my story will become someone else’s addiction and inspiration. I wonder what they’ll name our episode of Dateline, 48 Hours, or the top true crime podcast of the month…

My mom calls almost every day to see how I’m feeling and if I need anything. She’s still on edge and I think it bothers her that she’s not closer. But none of this happened because she and my dad live on another continent. My mom is grateful I’m alive, but what of Bowen’s mother? What does Leona think about what Bowen’s done…or Hildy? Maybe she’s in denial, and I wouldn’t blame her.

God, hormones are wild…

Bowen’s face stares back at me from my screen; wide, beautiful smile, and haunting dark eyes that no one knows the depth of. Not even him. I looked up into his eyes and watched them dim as the blood drained out along with all his rage. Maybe he took some of it with him wherever he is now.

Hateful bones searching for something he’ll never find…

But where the Internet pulled a photo of Bowen’s beaming but dead inside face, it wasn’t as kind to Jay Rhinehardt, his brother, Wells, and father, Jimmy, as well as the rest of the Canaan Police Department. In a subsequent article written by Sydney Van Doren, a video is embedded that captures the moment the FBI raided the police department and took about half its police force into custody.

Sydney will write more articles, sit for interviews, continue podcasting with Tyler, and probably write a book about what happened, while Jay laments all the poor choices that led him to this point. Nobody’s seen hide nor hair of his wife, Hildy, who is politely referred to as a “person of interest” after investigators tore up the concrete in their barn and recovered a duffel bag containing the remains of Emily Fox. I’d say that Hildy’s lamenting her choices, too, but like she told me in her backyard last year, she shares DNA with Bowen, which makes that highly unlikely.

Every day, more details will come out, and every day, the world will find out what depravity can lie beneath the thin veneer of smalltown USA. But other things we will keep to ourselves, things that which the world is better off not knowing. But we know. And that’s what matters.

Alex’s white Raptor rolls up the driveway, followed by a black Range Rover and red Jeep Wrangler crunching in the gravel as all comes to a stop in front of our house. I close the news article and toss my phone onto the cushion as I stand up. Colson’s eyes are still closed, so I cup his face and lean over him. His lips tense against mine and he kisses me back, his eyes still closed like he’s in a dream.

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