Page 71 of Heart So Hollow

I feel like I’m shaking, but when I look down at my arm, I’m surprised to find it’s still. Colson nods to me with a faint smile. My skin starts to crawl. His expression is both familiar and unsettling. I force myself to respond with the usual idiotic pseudo-smile of acknowledgement reserved for people you pass in the hallway as to not seem rude.

“This is Brett Sorensen,” Eric turns to Colson, “be nice to her. If you want to go anywhere around here, you have to get her say so.”

Be nice to me…yeah fucking right.

“Since we have the disaster response exercise tomorrow, can you confirm he has all the clearances he needs so we don’t hit a snag in the middle of it?” Eric continues.

“Sure,” I squeak, swiveling around to my screen.

At least I have an excuse to focus elsewhere. I click the desktop icon to open the access program for our building. I search for Colson’s name and click on it to open a new window. His name shows up in large, black, block letters at the top of the screen. A list of buildings and access points stretch down the window below it, all of them highlighted in green. A map of the property is below it, filled with blocks of green and no red. Colson has all the clearances. He can go anywhere he wants, just like the rest of them.

“Yep,” I keep it short, “you’re all set.”

Eric walks around the side of my desk to look at the screen, “OK, come here,” he motions to Colson and points at my screen.

To my horror, Colson rounds the other side and plants his hand on my desk, leaning over my right shoulder. My eyes shift from Eric on my left to Colson on my right. My heart pounds faster as the low-key hum in my ears gets louder. I sit, frozen, my hand still on my mouse, staring at Colson’s arm just inches from me.

The underside of his forearm is covered in ink, tattooed with the silhouette of a mountain range, its undulating grey shadows extending from his wrist to the crook of his elbow. When he adjusts his stance, I see an ornate compass rose that extends the same length of his forearm. It’s beautiful, and I hate it at the same time.

Colson leans forward and points to my screen with his left hand as he asks Eric a question about hallway connectors. That’s when I see his left arm is also covered in black lines that criss-cross back and forth. As he moves his hand, I realize they’re connected by stars that form constellations.

Eric points to the schematic of the building layout on my second monitor, “This is the hallway I was telling you about…” He goes on to explain which exits will be prioritized for evacuations and which ones are designated for first responders.

If they stay in my office much longer, I’m sure I will be the one requiring the squad by the time he quits droning on about alarms and door locks. My office feels too small and both of them are entirely too close to me. It’s hot, but I’m shivering and my hands are cold and clammy.

My eyes drift from Colson’s arm to his hand, still splayed out on my desk. I still recognize his hands, even after all this time. Then again, how could I forget? Then I glance at his vest overtop his black t-shirt. I know what’s there, beneath the thin layer of cotton. And I wonder if it’s changed, after what happened…

Stop it.

Involuntary flashes of that night pelt my brain.

It’s not your problem. He tried to kill you. It doesn’t matter.

I remember thinking how clean his nails were for someone who went tramping around in the woods, climbing rocks and clearing trails all the time. That hasn’t changed. Except, now, he has a jagged scar across the top of his hand. That wasn’t there before.

I shift my gaze to his wrist. His chunky black activity tracker watch reads 10:42. Finally, after what seems like an hour, Eric and Colson stroll back around to the front of my desk, finishing their conversation like I’m not even here. But I don’t mind. If they could continue to ignore me, that would be great.

“Alright, thanks, Brett!” Eric gives me a wave as he steps into the hallway.

“No problem,” I wave back.

I look down at my computer screen and wait for everyone to vacate my office, but I hear a faint noise and glance up. And when I do, my breath catches. Colson is standing in the doorway, tapping the frame.

“So, um,” he looks me up and down and the corner of his mouth curls ever so slightly, “nice to meet you.”

Before I can react, Colson disappears around the corner, leaving me with a pit of dread deep in my gut. My hands fly to my face and I press my fingers into my eyelids, drawing in deep breaths. And then I hear his voice, taking me back to that run-down gas station on that deserted road in the middle of nowhere.

“If you’re good, I’ll mark you as mine…then I’ll bind your hands, so you won’t run when I start telling scary stories.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Brett

One Year Ago

“He actually said, nice to meet you,” I groan, twisting my fork into my pile of spaghetti.

Bowen shakes his head in disbelief, dragging a piece of garlic bread through the remaining marinara on his plate. Another perk of living with Bowen Garrison—the man can cook. And he makes sauce like some 90-year-old Sicilian grandmother.

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