Книга - Dark Hollows

Dark Hollows
Steve Frech


‘My blood turned to ice… A perfect psychological thriller… Highly recommended. ’ NetGalley reviewer, 5 stars Jacob Reese enjoys the quiet life, running a coffee shop and renting out his cottage in The Hollows, Vermont. But the calm is shattered when a woman who looks eerily similar to his ex-girlfriend Laura turns up to stay in the cottage, and leaves a mysterious note in the guest book. Now Jacob’s seeing Laura everywhere—a glimpse of her face across the street, her music box left outside his house, a gift he gave her years before hanging from the trees. But it can’t be Laura. Because Laura’s dead. A gripping, twisted and haunting thriller. Fans of Gillian Flynn, Gregg Olsen and Mark Edwards will love Steve Frech. Readers LOVE Dark Hollows: ‘Grips you from the beginning… I read it in a few hours. ’ NetGalley reviewer ‘Fast paced. Hard to put down… Caught hold of me and had me hooked from the start. I was literally on the edge of my seat reading this book. ’ NetGalley reviewer ‘Enjoyable, mysterious and well written. A great book. ’ NetGalley reviewer ‘A mesmerising read. ’ NetGalley reviewer ‘Uniquely perfect. ’ NetGalley reviewer









About the Author (#uc998425c-763a-51a1-9b41-6aaf72a162cf)


STEVE FRECH lives in Los Angeles. In addition to writing, he produces and hosts the Random Awesomeness Podcast, an improv-comedy quiz show that has been performed at Upright Citizens Brigade, The Improv, iO West, and Nerdist.




Dark Hollows

STEVE FRECH








HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © Steve Frech 2019

Steve Frech asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © December 2019 ISBN: 9780008368227

Version: 2019-10-31


Table of Contents

Cover (#ue765d87b-bd24-5b49-9623-e3fa2814f217)

About the Author

Title Page (#u87182863-9481-5af2-a543-17cd47457b16)

Copyright (#ud83a9b84-58e9-524b-9009-ad8c073e5bb0)

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Acknowledgements

Thank you for reading Dark Hollows!

Dear Reader … (#litres_trial_promo)

Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher




Epigraph (#uc998425c-763a-51a1-9b41-6aaf72a162cf)


Just close your eyes,

And you and I,

Will brave the dark and go dancing.

The Dreamer’s Waltz




Chapter 1 (#uc998425c-763a-51a1-9b41-6aaf72a162cf)


I’m standing in the basement of a run-down, abandoned warehouse, staring at the padlock on a heavy steel door. The walls are coated in grime and there is the sound of dripping water from somewhere in the darkness.

The padlock begins to tremble. It’s subtle, at first, but then grows violent, as if some enraged, unseen force is trying to pull it open. The padlock rattles against the door.

“No … please … please, hold …” I whisper, my voice weak in pain and fear.

The shaking intensifies. It begins to infect the door and the walls, filling the basement with a low rumble.

“Don’t … I’m so sorry … Please …”

The rumble grows into a deafening roar. It feels like the entire building is going to come down on top of me. Bile rises in my throat.

“No … no …”

Everything stops.

I know what’s coming. I know what’s behind that door.

Oh my God, what have I done?

The lock snaps open.

I bolt upright in bed. Sweat pours down my face and my lungs pull in rapid gulps of air.

In the dawning light of morning, I can see Murphy, my black Lab mutt, lying in his bed in the corner of the room. He cocks his head at me.

I grip my side and hiss through clenched teeth. Sitting up so fast causes the old injury in my side to flare with pain, but it passes. I steady my breath and wipe the sweat from my eyes. I throw off the covers, hop out of bed, and head to the bathroom. The nightmare is nothing new. I’ve been having it for years, reliving the panic and shock of that night over and over, but I’ve learned to quickly put it out of my mind.

After throwing some cold water on my face, I pull on a pair of jeans and a shirt and head downstairs to start a pot of coffee. Murphy joins me in the kitchen, but instead of coming over to the counter, he sits next to his food bowl and gives me those big, dinner-plate eyes.

“What? Are you hungry?” I ask.

His tail thumps against the floor.

I feed him a little dry food from the bag in the pantry, and then go to the window over the sink and glance down the drive, past the pond, to the cottage sitting at the edge of the woods.

The Thelsons’ car is gone. No surprise there. They said they were getting an early start back to Manhattan.

Coffee in hand, I walk to the front door and pat my leg as I step out onto the porch.

“Let’s go, Murph.”

Murphy inhales the last of his breakfast and hustles after me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him chew, even when he was a puppy. He springs off the porch and down the steps. We walk past the pond, towards the cottage. As we pass the truck in the driveway, I make yet another mental note to fix that damn taillight. Somehow, all the mental notes I make about it go unremembered.

I walk around the fire pit and note the wineglasses sitting next to the chairs. I step over to the front door of the cottage, take out my key, and open the door. Before doing anything, I go to the kitchen table and open the guestbook. I flip through the pages until I find the latest entry. The ink is so dark and sharp, it had to have been written not more than an hour ago.

We were in town from Manhattan to do some leaf-peeping and had a wonderful time. The Hollows is a beautiful little town. We loved the shops on Main Street and strolling through the cemetery at the Old Stone Church. What can we say about Jacob’s cottage? So amazing! We began every morning with a walk through the woods to check out the hills and always stopped at “The Sanctuary”. Jacob is the perfect host. The wine and the s’mores were just the right touch. And then, there’s Murphy! Such a sweetie! Can’t wait to come back!

~ John & Margaret Thelson

I snap the guestbook closed and look around the cottage. It never fails; whenever someone from Manhattan signs the guestbook, they always have to mention that they’re from Manhattan. Hopefully, they’ll post the review on Be Our Guest this afternoon, once they get home.

The Thelsons were standard New York City types; taking their yearly fall pilgrimage up north to see some trees. They were a wealthy couple who would call this quaint, one-bedroom cottage “roughing it”, even though it had all the amenities, a couple of bottles of wine, and a fire pit outside. Still, they were pleasant, and they’ve left the cottage in good shape. The turnaround should be quick, and I’ve got it down to a science.

Murphy walks through the open front door. He’s done scouting the fire pit for any stray graham crackers or marshmallows left by the Thelsons, and goes right for the kitchen to see if there are any scraps lying about.

“Happy hunting, Murphy,” I say. He deserves it. He’s one of my best selling points.

I clap my hands and rub them together. “All right. Time to get to work.”

First thing I do is bring in the wineglasses and wash them in the kitchen sink. Then, I collect the bedsheets and towels, put them in a bag, and carry it to the house. Murphy follows close behind. I take the bag down to the basement and pop the contents into the washing machine. Even though we’ve done this process hundreds of times, Murphy bolts as soon as I open the lid because to him, the washing machine is still some sort of monster. Once I get that going, I head back upstairs. Murphy’s on the porch, waiting for me.

“Coward,” I say.

He responds by letting his tongue flop out of his mouth and starts panting.

As we begin walking back to the cottage, Murphy spots the ducks that have settled onto the glassy surface of the pond. He pins his ears back and sprints after them.

“Murphy!” I shout.

He stops at the water’s edge and looks at me.

“Nope. Come on.”

He stares at the pond and then back at me as if to ask, “But do you not see the ducks?”

“Come,” I say, with a forceful slap on my leg.

He runs to catch up, but instead of following me into the cottage, he lies down on the cottage porch to enjoy the cool New England morning.

I restock the complimentary toiletries and clean the bathroom. No disasters there. One time, I had a young couple from Los Angeles stay for a weekend and after drinking too much wine, they destroyed the bathroom. I almost left them a bad review, but they were in the “Elite Class” on Be Our Guest, so I held my fire. Thankfully, they left me a glowing review.

I finish scrubbing the tub and stand up a little too quickly. The pain in my side flares again, but it barely registers.

Time to tackle the kitchen. I clean the plates from the s’mores and refill the basket by the coffee maker with packs of Groundworks coffee. I wipe down the counter and sweep the floor. After that, I retrieve the vacuum cleaner from the hall closet. I have my routine down, working my way from the bedroom, then the bathroom, down the hall, and into the living room/kitchen area.

I push the vacuum around the bookcase, which is filled with some of my favorite books—a few thrillers, some Michael Crichtons, A Christmas Carol, et cetera. No one reads them while they’re here, but they make for good pictures on the Be Our Guest website. There’s also a row of DVDs no one watches: Casablanca, When Harry Met Sally, Vertigo, Roman Holiday, and Dead Again. As I glide the vacuum cleaner over the rug by the fireplace, my eyes catch the stick doll I made years ago, resting on the mantel. It’s a crude figure made of twigs tied together with twine. It adds a nice, rugged touch to the place. In Boy Scouts, they taught us to use pine needles instead of twine, but those don’t last long—

“For me?” she asked in mock flattery.

“Just something I learned in Boy Scouts.”

She saw right through my bullshit.

“Well, I shall treasure it always,” she said, clutching the doll to her chest, toying with me …

I’m pulled from my memory by Murphy whining.

He’s sitting in the doorway. His expression is a perfect balance of wanting to enter the cottage but respecting the vacuum cleaner.

I flip the switch, and the vacuum engine whirrs to a stop.

“Done,” I tell him, and put the vacuum back in the closet.

While in the closet, I rotate the stacks of towels, and accidentally knock over the small dish hidden on the top shelf, which contains a spare key to the house and the coffee shop. I keep a spare key for both out here because I learned the hard way that I should when I locked myself out of the house about a year ago. I put the keys back in the dish, tuck it all the way back on the shelf, and close the door. I pull out my phone and take a series of pictures of the cottage. It’s been a while, and I need to change the photos on the Be Our Guest website.

I head back to the house and transfer the sheets and towels to the dryer. Once again, Murphy stays by my side until I get to the basement stairs, because the dryer is the washer’s evil twin. That accomplished, I head back down to the cottage to do one last spot check to make sure everything is perfect.

I normally wouldn’t do an extra check, but tonight, I’m breaking a rule.

Here’s the deal—a few years ago, my parents died. We weren’t particularly close. In fact, we weren’t close at all, which is strange for an only child, but there was history. They were the successful, wealthy, married couple who had done everything right, while I was nothing but one dumb decision after another. I could never get my feet under me and it was my own fault. I squandered every chance they gave me.

It got so bad that they finally cut me off after I screwed around my sophomore year in college. I had to find another way to pay my tuition, which I did. I told them I got a job, but not the whole story about what the job was. They were pleased that I had finally taken responsibility for myself and tried to reconnect but for me, the damage had been done. I wanted nothing to do with them. There were obligatory phone calls on Christmas and birthdays, filled with awkward conversations. I was living in Portland, Maine, while they had moved to Hilton Head, South Carolina.

Their passing was quick. Mom became ill. I offered to come down and help out, because that’s what an only child does, right, even if we hadn’t really spoken in years? Dad declined my offer, claiming he could handle it. Well, he couldn’t. The stress got to him and he had a heart attack. It was over before he hit the floor. I got the call from the nurse Dad had hired to look after Mom. On my way down to the funeral, Mom passed away. The nurse said it was from a broken heart. I didn’t know how to feel. They hadn’t been a part of my life for so long, it felt like they were already gone, but I did wish that I had maybe tried to patch things up.

The dual funeral was surreal. There were a lot of people there, and I didn’t know any of them. When they found out who I was, they came up and commented on how painful and sad it must be for me, and what wonderful people my parents had been. I tried to be sympathetic, but I worried that they would be able to tell that I really didn’t know my parents. The worst was having to give a speech. I felt like a fraud. No, I was a fraud. Thankfully, any question of my sincerity could be chalked up to shock and grief. I felt guilty for not knowing them. All those people were moved by their passing, and I was ashamed of myself. I pictured what my funeral would look like, and it was not a well-attended affair.

Then came the will.

My parents left me everything. There was no personal declaration in it—no directions as to what I was supposed to do with their life’s savings. There was only the simple instruction that I was to receive everything. I assumed that it was their way of saying that I had shown myself worthy after making my own way. Maybe they were saying that they were sorry. Maybe they thought that some day, we really would be a family again. I don’t know, but that’s when I made the decision. I had made so many mistakes—the worst of which were only known to me. I decided then and there—no more messing around. It was time to straighten out my life.

I grew up in Vermont, and since I was looking at this as a reset, I decided to go back. I did my research, found The Hollows, and bought the property on the outskirts of town. The nearest neighbor was a half a mile away. The property was secluded, but not isolated. I loved the plot of land, which was nestled up against the woods. There was the main house, the pond, and the cottage. The cottage had been the main house when the land had been a farm, but around a hundred and fifty years ago, the land had been sold, the new house built, the pond dug, and the cottage was abandoned. The fact that the main house was old gave it a sense of maturity and responsibility that I now craved.

I also loved The Hollows. It had originally been settled by two French explorers in the early 1600s, who named it “Chavelle’s Hollow”. Then came the British, and after the French-Indian War, they decided to change the name to “Sommerton’s Hollow”, in honor of the British General, Edward Sommerton. The problem was that the town was so small and located right on the border between the French and British territories, people called it by both names. Then the American Revolution happened, and Sommerton served in the British Army. After the war, the citizens of the newly formed country didn’t want to have a town honoring their recently vanquished enemy, so they changed the name to “Putnam’s Hollow”, in honor of Rufus Putnam of the Continental Army.

This all happened so fast, relatively speaking, that people were calling the town by all three names at the same time, depending on if they were French, British, or American. When the town finally got a post office, which is what makes a place an official town in the eyes of the government, the surveyor was so fed up with trying to determine the correct name for such a small town, he simply wrote down “The Hollows”, and it stuck. The Hollows became one of those towns you see on travel websites—a charming New England town with a Main Street comprised of three-hundred-year-old, colonial-style buildings, a town green, an old stone church, and winding roads, hidden among the rolling hills and forests.

After purchasing the house, I moved on to the next phase of my plan—opening my own business.

I rented a storefront on Main Street and opened a coffee shop. Like the rest of the town, Main Street was a postcard. The centuries-old buildings that line the street each have a plaque identifying the year they were built and for whom. Instead of switching to electric lights, the town kept its old gas lamps. At night, it was a fairy tale.

My shop was a small, single-story structure just down and across from the church, which everyone called the Old Stone Church. My coffee shop’s large front window gave the perfect view with the town green across the street, and the old cemetery next to the church, to the south. I named the place “Groundworks” and began my little endeavor. I quickly realized that I had bitten off way more than I could chew, but since there was no Plan B, I had put nearly all of my inheritance into the house and the shop, so I had to stick it out.

Little by little, I got it under control. I started by giving out free samples of Groundworks’ signature coffee to the local hotels and B&Bs to put in their guestrooms. They jumped on it as a way to promote local business. That’s what the fall tourist season is all about. The Hollows is a cottage industry. It also paid off in that everyone staying at the hotels and B&Bs came to the shop during their exploration of the surrounding hills and countryside. I slowly fought my way out of the red, and while things were looking up financially, it was really hard work.

One downside of moving to a new town and putting in so many hours was that I was lonely. On an impulse, I took a trip to the local animal shelter. Behind the shelter was a pen where they allowed the dogs to run and play. I told myself I was going to adopt the first dog who came up to me. I stepped through the gate and this little black ball of fur with oversized paws broke from the pack and came flying at me, ears and jowls flapping wildly. He charged and didn’t stop. He simply plowed into my shins and careened across the ground. He instantly sprang up and repeated the process. After the third time of tumbling over my feet, he was going to try again but was so dizzy, he fell over.

I was laughing so hard, tears poured down my cheeks, and I had to sit down. The mutt leapt at me and attempted to lick my face off. That was that. I named him Murphy, and we’ve been inseparable ever since. I’m not exaggerating about that. In four years, we’ve rarely left each other’s side. With the long hours I was putting in at the shop, I couldn’t leave him at home, alone, so I brought him with me. Before long, Murphy was Groundworks’ unofficial mascot.

I remodeled Groundworks to give it an “old-timey” feel and it started to pick up steam. I was there almost fourteen hours a day, seven days a week. Business continued to grow.

One morning two years ago, Maggie Vaughn, who runs the Elmwood Hotel a block away, stopped by to pick up her supply of coffee, and remarked that her hotel was so full, she was turning people away.

That sparked an idea to give myself a side project and make a little extra coin.

By that time, I had hired some staff to lighten the load and had some time for myself.

I had been using the cottage as storage for Groundworks, but I took out some money, and renovated it as a place to stay. I fixed it up into a charming, one-bedroom affair with a remodeled kitchen and bathroom. I even added the fire pit out front. At the time, Airbnb was starting to take off. I thought they might be too crowded, so I went with a rival start-up called “Be Our Guest”. It marketed itself as a more selective and upscale version of Airbnb. They weren’t going after people looking to save a buck. They were after wealthy people wanting a different experience. These were exactly the tourists who were coming to The Hollows.

Since Be Our Guest was new, they wanted unique properties. I contacted them with photos of the cottage, and they went berserk. A representative from Be Our Guest came out to inspect the cottage and loved it. We went through the formalities. I had to sign a bunch of papers, promising to comply with their policies, one of which was that I wouldn’t become involved “physically or otherwise” with a guest during their stay at my property. I had to submit to a background check, which always makes me nervous. I was confident they wouldn’t find anything, but still, I worry.

Once that was done, I was cleared for takeoff, and take off, it did. Be Our Guest ran the cottage as a featured property and immediately, the reservations filled up. It was great. I was charging $200 a night in the off-season and $300 a night in the fall. If I wanted to, I could have booked the cottage every night. It’s the easiest money I’ve ever made. I usually only saw my guests once or twice. They were always polite—well, most of the time, and all it took was an hour or two, at most, to clean and reset the place after they left.

Some of the hotel owners in town were upset that I had gotten into the game, but not too upset. They were still operating at capacity. I think they were more worried that other residents with extra bedrooms might try to go the Airbnb route. Anyway, like I said—easiest money I ever made. I could set my own dates, and if I wanted to take a break from keeping up the cottage, I just blocked out a week or two here and there. People enjoyed their stay. I made sure to keep the cottage stocked with wine from local wineries and coffee—only Groundworks, of course. Once I put in the fire pit, I also made sure to have the stuff to make s’mores in the kitchen. Everyone took advantage of it.

And everyone loved Murphy.

I did have some rules, though. I didn’t allow anyone to stay at the cottage who hadn’t already written at least three reviews on Be Our Guest. That’s one of the beauties of the site. Hotels have to let anyone stay at their place, so long as they have a credit card. With Be Our Guest, I get to vet who stays at my place. I can see what they’ve said about other places, and you can tell who’s going to be a problem by their reviews. They’re the people who are determined to have a bad time, no matter what. That’s my rule—three reviews to prove that you are a reasonable person. It’s my most sacred rule.

And tonight, I’m breaking it.

Two months ago, I received a request from a woman named Rebecca Lowden to stay in the cottage for one night, only. I was going to reject the reservation request when I saw that she had no previous reviews, but I always check the reservation request to see where they heard about me to stay informed about where Be Our Guest is advertising. I clicked on her request, which took me to her profile page. She was undeniably beautiful, with brunette hair and blue eyes, but it was her bio that caught me.

In the bio sections, Be Our Guest encourages you to list things, like your hobbies, favorite books, and favorite movies. As one of her favorite books, she listed A Christmas Carol. And in the “favorite movies” section? Dead Again, which is in my top five. Also, she had grown up in a town not too far from where I grew up.

So, out of simple curiosity, I broke my rule and accepted the reservation.

*

I pull the sheets and towels from the dryer, and head back to the cottage. I make the bed, pulling the sheets tight and tucking the corners securely under the mattress. I never made my bed until the cottage. Now, I can’t sleep in a bed that’s not made. I hang fresh towels in the bathroom, and stack the rest on the top shelf in the hall closet.

And with that, I’m done. The cottage is ready to go. Check-in time is three o’clock and right now, it’s noon. She could be here in three hours, or she might not arrive until tonight, but it’s a safe guess that she’ll be here closer to three. Most people treat arrangements like this as though they’re arriving at someone’s house, rather than a hotel. So, like I said, she’ll probably be here closer to three. I kind of want to be here when she arrives.

Again, it’s only curiosity. Don’t look at me like that.

I put the key in the lockbox next to the front door, and reset the passcode for the four digits I sent Rebecca in the confirmation email.

I have to head to Groundworks in a few hours, but until then, I can kill time in the hopes of meeting her.

I head back to the main house, and walk into my office on the first floor. The floorboards in the hall squeak in a familiar sound that I’ve grown to relish. It reminds me of the sense of responsibility for the aged house. It’s seen the very end of a Civil War, a World War, a Great Depression, another World War, the Seventies, the turn of the millennium, and I’m the one to make sure it sees the next milestone. I spin into the swivel chair at the desk and fire up the computer.

I check my emails and see that Sandy Bellhurst, the manager I hired to help me at Groundworks, has sent me the receipts from yesterday. I enter them into my accounting software and take care of some more emails. When I’m done, I look over to the door and see Murphy’s half in and half out of the room.

“What? Are you hungry, again?”

Murphy’s tail starts wagging so furiously, it causes his butt to oscillate.

“All right. Fine.”

He turns and runs to the kitchen. I get up and follow.

I feed Murphy a little more food from the bag in the pantry. I heard somewhere that you should give dogs a little food at a time rather than full meals to keep them from getting overweight. It’s healthier and I want Murphy at my side for as long as I can keep him.

After I feed him, I set up on the porch. I think about taking Murphy on a walk to The Sanctuary, but decide to play it cool and drop into a chair with a paperback to enjoy the autumn afternoon in case Rebecca arrives early.

It’s really beautiful. The breeze carries the scent of dead leaves from the forest to the porch. The colors are at their peak. The cotton-ball clouds race through the sky overhead. It’s that perfect temperature where I need a jacket, but not a coat. There’s only a few more days until Halloween, which is The Hollows’ time to shine.

Murphy comes out, pushing open the unlatched screen door with his nose, and plops down with a contented sigh next to my chair.

Rebecca Lowden can take her time.

I’m perfectly fine.

*

Hours later, I’m still on the porch, but I need to get going.

I’m meeting at Groundworks with a rep from Alliance Capital. It’s a company that’s interested in turning Groundworks into a franchise.

Murphy’s still here on the porch with me, thrashing around on his back, trying to get an itch on his spine. He snorts as he writhes back and forth. I decide it’s a great pic, and take out my phone. I get out of my chair and crouch down near his head. Still on his back, he looks at me as if to ask, “What the hell are you doing?”

I get low, right by his nose, and snap a photo. I know right away I can’t use it for the Be Our Guest website because the cottage is framed between his open hind legs. It’s hysterical, but probably not appropriate. Also, as I hit the shutter button, a Ford Focus pulls into frame, and parks next to the cottage. I take another picture, for my own collection, and tuck the phone into my pocket. Murphy rolls over, taking note of the new arrival.

I stand up and move to the steps, ready to greet Rebecca Lowden, but stop. It’s not her. It can’t be. Someone has taken a wrong turn. The woman getting out of the Focus has red hair. Rebecca is a brunette.

Murphy takes off towards her. I follow. He pulls up a few yards short, and strikes a submissive pose. She crouches down, and pats her knees in encouragement.

Wait. I’m wrong. It is Rebecca Lowden. She’s dyed her hair a deep red.

Murphy gets closer and playfully rolls onto his back for a tummy rub. She obliges.

I keep walking forward. Yes, it is indeed Rebecca Lowden. She’s still a knockout, but that red hair isn’t working for her.

“Hi,” she says to me, while patting Murphy’s stomach. “Are you Jacob?”

“Yep. You Rebecca?”

“That’s me.”

“Sorry. I didn’t recognize you with the hair. It’s different from your profile pic.”

She stands. “Yeah. Just something I’m trying.”

Murphy gets up, and spins his hindquarters into her for a butt-scratch.

“And you must be Murphy!” she says in baby talk, running her nails across his hips. Murphy is in heaven. “Sorry I’m late.”

“No, no. You’re not late. You can check in whenever you want. The key is in the lockbox next to the door.”

“Great. Thank you.”

“I’d offer to show you around, but Murphy and I have to run into town for a little business meeting.”

She lightheartedly slaps Murphy’s butt. “No worries.”

“I don’t know what your plans are, but there’s coffee and wine in the cottage, and stuff to make s’mores. If you want to use the fire pit, there are some logs around the back.”

“Great.”

“If there’s anything else you need, you’ve got my number, right?”

“Yep.”

There’s this weird pause where I feel like she’s waiting for me to leave.

“Okay,” I say. “Come on, Murph.”

He hesitates, but then comes to my side, and follows me to the truck. I glance over my shoulder and watch as she goes to the lockbox and punches in the code.

By the time Murphy and I reach the truck, she’s already entering the cottage. She goes in and closes the door.

I open the truck, and Murphy leaps in. He loves car rides. I climb into the cabin and turn the key in the ignition. As the truck roars to life, the light goes on in the cottage.

“Murphy, is it just me or was that a little weird?” I ask.

I look over and see his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.

“Oh, yeah. You’re a dog.”

I pop the truck into gear and roll down the driveway. I turn onto Normandy Lane, take one last look at the cottage in the rearview mirror, and head towards town.

*

Groundworks is busy, which is good. Aside from the revenue, I want it busy so the Alliance Capital rep can see that it’s a thriving business.

Heads turn at the sound of the jingling bells on the door when Murphy and I walk in. There are a few regulars I recognize, like Reverend Williams from the Old Stone Church. He usually drops by once a month, but most of the customers are tourists I’ve never seen before. They may not know who I am, but Murphy is the ultimate kryptonite, and everyone is instantly enamored.

I’ll share a little secret with you; at first, I hated this place. From the moment it opened, I regretted staking everything I had on it. I felt like I had thrown all my money away on something I could never get off the ground. Now, I love it. The smell of fresh coffee penetrates every surface. The constant hiss of the cappuccino maker. The perfect view of The Hollows’ main thoroughfare, capped by the Old Stone Church at the end of the street. The location had been expensive, but it paid off.

Sandy is manning the register, while Tom and Sheila, two local high school kids, race back and forth, concocting drinks. The line is sizable, but not unreasonable.

“Hey, Sandy,” I say, stepping behind the counter.

“Hey, boss,” she tosses over her shoulder, and redirects her attention to the man at the counter. “That’ll be $18.47.”

The man hands her a twenty. Sandy makes the change.

Sandy’s a bit younger than me, and has a single-mindedness in her pursuits. She wants to be successful in business, and she will be if I have any say in it. When Groundworks started to take off, it was too much for me. I didn’t know how to keep the momentum going. Sandy did.

“We’ll call your name when it’s ready.”

The man turns, and goes to wait by the creamer station.

“How’s it been today?” I ask.

She multi-tasks as she answers. “Good. I’ve placed the orders. The new napkins with the logos arrive next week. Colton’s Bakery is late with the brownies, again. Other than that, it’s a good day.”

“What would I do without you, Sandy?”

She turns to me with all seriousness. “Two stores when the franchise kicks in. That’s the deal.”

“Done. Is he here?”

She nods over to the corner of the restaurant.

“Yep. Over in the booth.”

I follow the gesture, and see a bald guy with glasses sitting in the corner booth, next to the window. He’s got a laptop and a latte in front of him. He’s thumbing through his phone, and occasionally glances out the window to the shops and the town green across the street.

“You didn’t charge him, did you?”

Sandy comically rolls her eyes.

“Good,” I reply, and head towards the booth.

“Two stores,” she calls after me.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

Murphy gets up and follows me.

The man looks up as I slide into the opposite seat across the table.

“Hi. I’m Jacob Reese.”

“Gregory Tiller. Alliance Capital. Pleased to meet you,” he says and extends his hand.

We shake.

“Good to meet you. This is Murphy,” I say, with a flick of the wrist in Murphy’s direction.

Tiller nods at him. “Hi, Murphy.”

“So,” I begin. “What do you think of the place?”

“Well, as you know, this is just a preliminary scouting trip. I’m pretty low on the totem pole, and have to report back my initial findings, but I have to tell you, I love it—the décor, the themes, the menu. It’s really impressive and your associate … ummm …”

“Sandy.”

“Yes. Sandy. She and I went over a lot of the finances before you got here and, I don’t mean to sound rude, but you could be making so much more with this place.”

“Well, I hope that’s where you come in.”

He smiles. “Good answer.” He consults his laptop. “Now, I believe I have everything I need to set up a meeting with Helen Trifauni. She’s one of our brand developers. She’s tough, but fair, and I think she’ll really go for this place.”

“Perfect.”

“Great. How does next week sound?”

“Fine with me, but it’s getting really close to Halloween, and it might be a little chaotic here in The Hollows. We tend to go all out. There’s the parade and everyone dresses up. It’s kind of a madhouse.”

“That’s what we want. It will add to the charm of Groundworks.”

“Then next week is perfect.”

He looks out the window to the green, where preliminary decorations are starting to take shape for the celebration. “Everyone dresses up?”

“Yeah. There’s a costume contest that some of us business owners take pretty seriously.”

“How seriously?”

“That seriously,” I say, pointing to the trophy sitting on a shelf on the wall near the door.

He laughs. “There’s a trophy?”

I nod.

“And last year, you won?”

“And the year before that and the year before that and the year before that,” I answer.

“What’s your costume for this year?”

I good-naturedly shake my head. “Everyone keeps their costume a secret.”

It’s true. None of us who enter the competition want to tip our hand. My costume was delivered over a month ago. It’s sitting on a shelf in my hall closet. Tiller’s question reminds me to talk to the post office, because the box was partially open when it was delivered.

“Will you win?” Tiller asks.

“Yep.”

“Love it. Well then, we’re on.”

We shake hands, again.

“If this works out,” he says, sitting back and gazing out the window, “there could be a Groundworks Coffee in dozens of towns in two years, and in five years, who knows?” He takes a sideways glance at me. “And that could potentially mean a couple million for you.”

“I can live with that.”

Tiller and I trade some more polite conversation. He starts talking about working Murphy into the logo. I tell him it’s all great, and of course, acting as his agent, Murphy would love to do it.

By the time we wrap up, it’s dark, and it’s close to closing time. We shake hands one last time, and agree to set up a meeting next week, based on Mrs Trifauni’s schedule.

Once he’s gone, I check in with the staff, and Murphy and I head towards the door.

“Email me the day’s receipts,” I call over my shoulder to Sandy.

“Two stores!” she reminds me.

I stop and turn. “If this works out the way these people are planning, you can have more than that.”

She gets thoughtful, and nervously glances around. “Three stores?”

“Done.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep.” I turn back to the door. “Email me the reports.”

“Could I have gotten more?”

“You said three!”

I push open the door, and am greeted by a blast of cold air.

“Good night, boss!” I hear her call out.

“Good night!”

*

I’m buzzing the entire ride through the woods and farmland back to the house. I pull into the driveway, and see that there’s a fire in the fire pit outside the cottage. Rebecca is sitting in one of the chairs next to it. I park and hop out, followed by Murphy.

As I start walking towards her, I’m suddenly filled with an overwhelming sense of dread. Something’s off, but I can’t put my finger on it. I’m not sure if Murphy’s reading my body language or what, but even he seems cautious.

Rebecca is watching me as I approach.

I stop next to the fire pit, which is directly between us. The flickering light plays across her darkened features and red hair.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi.”

“You know the taillight on your truck is out?”

“Yeah. I’ve been meaning to fix it.”

“How did your business meeting go?”

“Good …”

Why am I so uncomfortable? I’ve come home to this scene many times. It’s always ended with pleasantries and, sometimes, inebriated conversation. Why does this feel so different?

“Is something wrong?” Rebecca asks.

I try to shake it off. “No. Sorry. The meeting gave me a lot to think about. That’s all.”

“Oh.”

“How do you like the cottage?”

“I love it. It’s perfect.”

“Good.”

That’s when I see it—the stick doll. She’s holding it in her hands. My mouth goes dry and my knees soften. The image in front of me is paralyzing—her smile, that red hair, her holding that doll.

For a split second, she’s someone she can’t possibly be.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“W—what?”

She notices that I’m looking at the doll. Her eyes drift down to it and back up to me. Maybe it’s just a trick of the dancing glow of the fire, but I catch something accusatory, something righteous in her gaze.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I was just admiring it inside, and I had it in my hands when I came out here to start the fire.”

“No. No reason to be sorry.”

It has to be a coincidence. It has to be.

This afternoon, I had wanted to talk to her, to get to know her. Now, I want to get away from her. I need to get away from her.

I finally find my voice. “Well, I’m going to head inside. If there’s anything you need, let me know.”

She cocks her head. “Are you sure you don’t want to hang out?”

She’s being deliberate. That smile. The doll. The red hair. All she needs is the scar. This can’t be a coincidence, can it?

“I—I’d love to,” I stammer. “But that business thing I was just at …”

She nods, sympathetically. “A lot on your mind?”

“Yeah.”

I feel like a wounded mouse staring up at a grinning cat.

“So, if you need anything …” I weakly offer.

“I’ll call you.”

“… great.”

I turn and begin walking away.

“Good night,” she calls out.

“Good night,” I say over my shoulder.

Murphy follows me up the gently sloping lawn to the house. All the while, I’m fighting the urge to look back.

Once inside, I stand with my back to the door, trying to catch my breath. I go to the kitchen and pour myself a cup of water. I down it in one gulp, pour another one, and repeat the process. After standing there for I don’t know how long, I go to the cabinet over the fridge. I pull out a bottle of bourbon, pour myself a healthy dose, and down that as well. I wrangle my nerves and head into the living room, keeping the lights off. I go to the window, and peer through the curtains.

The fire pit glows but she’s no longer there. The light in the cottage is on. There are instructions as part of the rental agreement that you are not to leave a fire in the fire pit unattended, but I’m not going back down there. I want to stay in here, and convince myself that I’m being paranoid.

It was a coincidence. It has to be.

I pull the chair over to the window, sit down, and watch through the small space in the curtains.

There is no movement from the cottage. Only the single, solitary light.

*

I’ve been sitting here for hours, watching. Murphy’s curled up in his bed with his favorite red tennis ball. It’s midnight, and I’m slowly coming to my senses.

Of course, I’m being stupid. I’m seeing things that aren’t there. Yes, it was uncanny. All she needed was the scar above her eye, and that would have settled it, but she didn’t have one. It was a bunch of little coincidences that my mind assembled into an impossible conclusion.

Finally, the light in the cottage goes dark. The fire has long since burned out.

I’m an idiot.

I rise from the chair, joints aching, and head upstairs to my bedroom.

“Ridiculous,” I say aloud as I crawl into bed.

Murphy pads into the room. He comes around to the side of the bed, rests his snout on the mattress right in front of my face, and looks at me.

“Yeah. Fine. All right. Just for tonight. Up-up.”

He leaps onto the bed, and curls into a ball near my feet. He’s not supposed to do this. He’s got his own bed in the corner, but I’ve got too much on my mind to argue with him.

“You’re going to feel so stupid in the morning,” I tell myself and turn off the light.

The lock snaps open.

I continue to stare at it, immobilized with fear. I’m sweating. I can taste the bile in my throat. I know what’s coming. I know what’s behind that door.

“No … no …”

The handle turns with a groan that echoes through the basement.

I open my eyes.

The sun is coming up.

I go through the process of catching my breath and remembering where I am. That’s two nights in a row. That never happens. Not since they first started. It’s usually once every few weeks. The most troubling thing about this time is that the nightmare was slightly different. It always ends with the lock popping open. This time, the nightmare kept going, and the handle turned. That was new.

I roll over and glance at Murphy, who is taking up more than half of the bed. He’s lying on his back with his legs splayed out in what I callously call his “highway dog” pose.

I shake the image of the dream from my head and play the events of last night over in my mind.

I was right. I was seeing things that weren’t there. I’m also right about feeling stupid.

I take a shower and absent-mindedly run my finger over the two dime-sized scars in my side, while I think about Rebecca. I’m going to apologize to her for being so awkward last night. I want that positive review and the curiosity about who she is has come back.

I go down to the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. I look out the window above the sink at the sun peeking over the hills. My gaze drifts down to the cottage.

I stop.

The car is gone.

That’s not unheard of. Some people head out early to catch the sunrise or to make good time to their next destination. What makes me stop is that the door to the cottage is open.

Coffee in hand and Murphy close behind, I head out the door, step off the porch, and start walking towards the cottage. The woods are playing their early chorus of birdsong. A morning mist hangs a few feet above the ground. As I get closer, I realize that no, my eyes are not playing tricks on me. The front door is wide open.

I stop outside the door, and peer into the cottage.

“Miss Lowden?”

The sound of my voice stops the nearby birds, leaving the air filled with an unnerving silence. There’s no hint of a reply from inside.

Murphy waits by my side, sensing my tension.

“Rebecca?”

Nothing.

I step through the door. The air inside the cottage is cold, meaning the door has been open for hours. Nothing’s been touched. The coffee packets wait in the basket by the coffee maker. There are no water droplets in the sink. The throw pillows on the couch are exactly where I left them yesterday.

“Hello?”

I start walking down the short hall to the bedroom. Halfway down, I turn my head to look into the bathroom. The towels and toiletries are undisturbed.

I continue to the end of the hall. The bedroom door is closed. I stop next to the door and stand motionless, listening for any sound from within. I glance back down the hall. Murphy is waiting anxiously in the living room, prepared to flee at any moment.

I tap the door.

“Rebecca?”

There’s no response, which means either she’s not in there, or she is in there, and there’s something really wrong. I gently grasp the knob, turn, and slowly open the door.

The stick doll is on the bed, propped up on the pillows. The guestbook is lying open before it. Angry red letters are carved across the pages. The coffee cup slips from my hand, and falls to the floor.

I step closer, and a name stares back at me from the pages of the guestbook.

LAURA AISLING

The dread of last night comes crashing back, tenfold. My mind was not playing tricks on me. It wasn’t a coincidence.

That wasn’t Laura Aisling. It can’t be, because Laura Aisling is dead, and I thought I was the only one who knew that.

So this means someone knows my secret.




Chapter 2 (#uc998425c-763a-51a1-9b41-6aaf72a162cf)


“Yes, I know the account was deleted this morning. I’m trying to figure out who she was.”

“I don’t understand. Was there a problem with her payment?”

“No. That’s not—”

“Was there damage to your property?”

“No.”

“Then, I don’t see the—”

“You said the account was created two months ago. She made one reservation request. My place. Right?”

“Let me see … Yes. That appears to be correct.”

“And then, when she left my place this morning, she deleted the account?”

“Yes.”

“And I’m saying that I’m trying to figure out who the hell Rebecca Lowden really was. I’ve tried online searches, and I can’t find anything about her. Nothing on Facebook or LinkedIn, nothing on Google. It’s like she never existed.”

“Sir, at Be Our Guest, we strongly discourage any attempt to contact a guest outside of your transaction on our site. Besides, I’m still not seeing the problem. It is unusual, but I don’t see anything to be concerned about. I’m sorry that you might not get the review, but your property is one of our most popular spots. I can see that you’ve already had two reservation requests yesterday for December.”

“That’s not the point.”

This has been my entire morning. I immediately tried to find out who Rebecca Lowden was on my own so that I wouldn’t have to contact Be Our Guest and I could avoid these questions, but my search came up empty. So here I am, arguing on the phone with a rep from Be Our Guest.

“I’m still trying to understand this,” the representative continues. “You’re saying that there was no damage to your property?”

“No, dammit. I told you that already—”

“Did you try contacting her through her contact info?”

“Yes. The number is disconnected, and I’m not crossing my fingers on the email I sent.”

“Okay. Yes, I admit, that’s odd.”

“Do you?” I reply with maximum snark. “Do you admit that?”

“Sir—”

“Look, she deleted the account, but you guys still have her information, right? You have a copy of her driver’s license?” I know they do. Owners and renters alike have to submit to a background check when they sign up. I had to email a scanned copy of my license to set up my account. So did she.

“Yes.”

“Do you have it pulled up, right now?”

“Sir, I’m not going to give you any information from her—”

“I don’t want you to, but do me a favor and do a search for the address on her driver’s license. I want to know if the address is real.”

“Mr Reese, that would be highly irregular.”

“I’m not asking you to tell me where she lives. Just tell me if it’s a real address. If it is, I’ll hang up, and you and I can go about our day.”

He sighs. “One moment …”

I hear the clicking of his keyboard through the phone. It stops, as does his breath.

“You still with me?” I ask.

“Well … yes, there does seem to be an issue with the address.”

“Where did it put you; the middle of the ocean?”

“It might just be a problem with the—”

I shake my head. “It’s gotta be a fake ID.”

“Well, that is a possibility. I’ll be sure to make a note of it in the—”

“Let me ask you something: just how thorough are those background checks you do over there at Be Our Guest? I know they cost money. You guys cutting corners?”

“Mr Reese,” he answers with a new note of concern in his voice, “I’ll pass this along to my supervisor, and they’ll get back to you once we’ve resolved the issue.”

“Like you said, the account’s deleted, so there’s nothing you can really resolve, but sure, you let me know.”

I hang up the phone.

Whoever Rebecca Lowden is or was, she went to great lengths to mess with me, and I want to know why.

*

There’s another couple checking in this afternoon. I’ve got a few hours until they arrive, and since she didn’t touch anything, the cottage is ready to go. I rip the pages out of the guestbook, and burn them in the fire pit, destroying the only tangible evidence I have of her existence.

I need to think. I need a trip to The Sanctuary.

Behind the cottage is a path leading into the woods. About half a mile in, over some ridges and across a stream, is a dense area of pine trees. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why it’s there. When I first came across it while scouting the property, I thought it might be a man-made pine farm that had been forgotten, but the trees aren’t in rows. It’s just a fluke, I guess.

I reset the passcode on the key lockbox for the cottage, grab Murphy’s favorite red tennis ball, and we head off into the woods. Murphy knows the route, and darts back and forth across the path, going from smell to smell. We take this walk three or four times a week. Today, he strays a little further from the path than usual, but I don’t bother with his leash. My thoughts are too tangled.

Birds chirp from the trees as we make our way further and further into the forest. Normally, I would be drinking it in, but I can’t. I keep going over last night in my mind—the hair, the doll, the word nearly carved into the scrapbook. We arrive at the stream. There’s almost no water in it, but sure enough, Murphy finds a puddle to splash in.

We crest the final ridge and the path slopes down to the right, leading to the opening of The Sanctuary.

The thick, interwoven pine branches that form the opening look like the mouth of a cave. Murphy runs ahead and plunges through. I follow a few seconds behind.

Stepping through the opening, I’m wrapped in almost total silence. The soft breeze can’t penetrate the needles overhead. The sun’s light is scattered, casting the area into an even shade. Murphy barks at a fleeing squirrel and there’s not even an echo. About fifty yards in, amongst the massive trunks, is a clearing. There’s a downed tree off to the side, like it was purposefully placed there to serve as a bench. You can sit on it and look up at the sky through the hole in the trees, like you’re staring out of a well.

I love this place. The outside world doesn’t exist here. It was in this spot, sitting on this log, that I made the decision to buy the house and start the coffee shop. For a while, I didn’t tell my guests about it because I didn’t want to share it, but one day, a guy from Tulsa who was staying at the cottage found it, raved about it in his review, and I figured since the secret was out, I’d use it as a selling point.

I take a seat on the log. Murphy gives up on the squirrel and runs over to me. He sits and waits.

“What?” I ask, with an exaggerated shrug.

Murphy’s tail begins to thump on the ground.

“I don’t know what you want,” I say, shaking my head.

He yaps, and lowers his head.

“Okay, fine.”

I take the red tennis ball out of my pocket and begin throwing it for him. He darts after it, brings it back, and we repeat the process over and over. My mind begins to drift, and I start thinking of her.

She’s always there, in the back of my mind, the pangs of guilt, and the dreams. After so many years, I’ve buried it in the recesses of my mind, but after the events of this morning, I’m pulled back to the party where we first met—

—at a party at a frat house at Wilton University in Rutland. It was a Christian college, but even some Christian colleges have frat houses. Our introduction happened where a lot of college introductions happen—over a keg of Bud Lite.

The party had spilled into the yard. She was sticking close to a group of girlfriends while us guys circled like sharks, waiting for the opportunity to pick them off. The problem was that all the sharks wanted the same fish. She had light blue eyes, pale skin, high cheekbones, a strong chin, and gorgeous, flowing red hair that cascaded over her shoulders in waves. In all this perfection, there was the small scar over her right eye that added an air of mystery.

While other guys looked for an opening, I watched her beer. Once it got low, I made my way to the almost forgotten keg in the corner of the yard.

My strategy paid off when she came over for a refill.

“Let me get that for you,” I said, as only a smooth twenty-four-year-old would say.

“Thanks.” She smiled.

“I’m Jacob. Jacob Reese.”

“Laura Aisling.”

“Nice to meet you, Laura Aisling. Who are you here with?”

“Just some friends. You?”

“Just some friends.” That was my first of what would be many lies to her.

We made small talk and drifted over to a picnic table near the edge of the yard, away from the crowd. I tried to be clever and used pick-up lines that had been successful on countless other girls on countless other campuses. She was amused, but not taken by them. As we spoke, I began to fiddle with some sticks and long pine needles that I picked up off the ground.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“You’ll see.”

We continued talking. She was a political science major who had transferred from New Hampshire University her sophomore year.

“Why did you transfer? Couldn’t cut it at UNH?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah. Something like that.”

“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but that scar?”

She touched the scar with her fingers. “Childhood injury. Fell out of a tree.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I wish there was a better story behind it.”

“Well, maybe this will make it better.” I handed her the stick doll I had been working on. The sticks formed the torso, arms, and legs, while the pine needles had been tied to hold it all together.

“For me?” she asked in mock flattery.

“Just something I learned in Boy Scouts.”

She saw right through my bullshit.

“Well, I shall treasure it always,” she said, clutching it to her chest, toying with me.

She paused, contemplated the doll, and looked at me.

“How many girls has this little trick worked on?”

My confidence rushed out of me like a deflating balloon. She had called me out and made me feel like an idiot, which made her all the more enticing, but I took it that the chase was over.

“It works on most girls, but obviously, you are not most girls,” I said.

She started laughing, which drew the attention of some of the party attendees around the yard.

“All right, all right. I’ll take it back,” I said, holding out my hand.

She held it closer to her chest, and twisted her torso away from me. “No, no, no. I’m keeping it.” There was that playful smile, and those eyes shone as she held the doll against her perfect breasts. She was something and she knew it.

“Okay,” I said, my confidence returning. “What do I get?”

“For what?”

“For the stick doll.”

“That’s rude,” she said, feigning insult. “He has a name.”

“Oh, yeah? What is it?”

She looked down at the doll and then smiled at me. “Duh. His name is ‘Woody’.”

Man, she was good.

“Okay. What do I get for Woody?”

She shrugged. “What do you want?”

“I’ll settle for a phone number.”

She bit her bottom lip, reached into her pocket, and pulled out her phone. “Tell you what—how about you give me your number, and I’ll think about it?”

“Deal.”

I gave it to her, and she typed it into her phone. Once she was finished, she tucked the phone back into her pocket, and hopped off the picnic table.

“I’m gonna get back to my friends. We’ll see you around, Jacob Reese.” She began walking back to the group of girls at the other end of the yard.

“Just be careful with the doll. They’re pretty flimsy,” I called after her.

She turned to me while continuing to walk backwards towards her friends. “Don’t worry. I won’t play too hard with your Woody.”

Every conversation around the yard stopped. The only sound was the music playing from the open window of the frat house. My cheeks burned, but I wasn’t mad. I liked being recognized as the target of her flirtations.

Laura and her friends gathered and left. She gave me one final glance as they headed off down the street. I relaxed on the picnic table and sipped my beer, basking in the glow of our conversation, but after a few minutes, it was time to attend to business.

I hopped off the picnic table and headed inside the frat house.

Loud music thumped from the first floor as I climbed the stairs. The place stunk of beer.

At the landing to the second floor, I headed down the hall, past closed bedroom doors, and the occasional pair of people talking or drinking. The closer I got to the door at the end of the hall, the stronger the smell of weed became, along with incense that was trying mightily to mask it.

I stopped at the end of the hall and listened. I could hear voices, laughter, and music coming from inside. I rapped on the door and it opened a few inches. A face peered through the crack and gave me the once-over.

He turned to the interior of the room. “It’s Jacob.”

“Let him in,” a voice answered.

The door swung open. I stepped in, and it was quickly shut behind me.

I was greeted with a chorus of “Jacob!”

It was the fraternity’s recreational room. There was a pool table in one corner, a ping-pong table in the other. There were couches situated around a TV, where guys were playing video games. The room was thick with haze, and I was sure that I was already getting a contact buzz. These were all the seniors—the cool guys. There were some girls there too, taking hits from the water bong on the table in front of the TV. There were also copious beer bottles and a few handles of Jack Daniel’s and Jägermeister scattered around the room.

Jeremy Massi, the fraternity’s president, got up and gave me a bro hug.

“What’s up, Jacob? How you been?”

“Good.”

“You want a beer or something?”

“No, thanks. Just doing my regular pickup, and I’ll be on my way.”

“Got it.”

He went over to a shelf, took down a book, opened it, and pulled out an envelope. He walked over and handed it to me.

“There you go.”

I took out the wad of cash from inside and began counting the assortment of hundreds, twenties, tens, and fives.

“Sure you don’t want to hang out?” Jeremy asked. “It’s a party.”

“Nah. I’m good,” I said.

It took me a while to count the cash, given that it was a couple thousand dollars in small bills.

“It’s all there, man. Two grand from all the frats on campus.”

“Just covering my ass,” I reassured him.

He patiently waited as I finished counting.

“All right,” I said, tucking the envelope into my jacket. “Jimmy will be by later with the delivery.”

“Tell him to hurry. We’re running low and the party is just getting started.”

“Will do. Pleasure doing business with you.”

We bro hugged again. I had been doing the job for a little over a year and Jeremy and I had gotten to know each other—not well, but well enough.

I turned to leave when one of the guys on the couch, I think his name was Dustin, sat up.

“Hey, Jacob?” he asked, stoned out of his mind.

“Yeah?”

“So, like, do you carry a gun when you do these deals?”

Jeremy sighed. “Dustin, come on, man.”

“No, I don’t carry a gun. I just handle the cash,” I answered.

Dustin smiled and slowly blinked his eyes. “That’s cool, man. Your life is like Scarface, right?”

“Shut up, Dustin,” one of the other seniors said.

Dustin turned to him. “What? Scarface is cool.”

“See you later, Jacob,” Jeremy said, waving me out the door.

“Later.” I waved back.

I walked out the door, back into the relatively cleaner air of the hallway, and headed downstairs.

No, I didn’t carry a gun.

This was the job I had turned to after my parents cut me off.

I had worked odd jobs to try to pay my tuition but it wasn’t cutting it. I needed to finish school, or so I thought, and took on massive amounts of debt. I think my parents were waiting for me to ask for help, but I was an arrogant twenty-something who felt that he had been wronged. So, no. I was going to do it myself, no matter how it wrecked my financial future.

I did a little better in my classes, now that I was paying for them myself, but the stress was too much. I started slipping, again. I’d blow off class and hang with an acquaintance of mine named Mattie, who had transferred to Lyndon University.

We’d smoke at his place. He bought it from a guy named Reggie, who sold to all the frat houses and college campuses in a ninety-mile radius. It was a nice little operation Reggie had going, but he used idiots to do his deals. They were guys who stuck out like sore thumbs on campuses, and they carried the cash and the drugs at the same time, which was flat-out stupid.

I saw a chance to make a little money, and asked Mattie if I could talk to Reggie. Mattie said I was nuts, and he was right, but I got the meeting. I laid it out for him. I explained that I was someone who didn’t look out of place on a college campus, and if you separated the money from the weed he was selling, it made it harder for the police. If someone was caught with a ton of money and a ton of weed, that was the ball game. If someone only had weed, it was harder to prove intent to sell. I learned that years ago from another friend who had gone into criminal law. I told Reggie that I would be his bagman. I would collect the cash and take a small cut that we would both agree to.

Looking back on it, yeah, it was insane, but Reggie went for it. The money was good and the work was incredibly easy. I was dealing with frat boys. This was nothing like Scarface. I graduated and decided to keep going, just until I paid off my loans. I knew I couldn’t do it forever, but at the time, it was the perfect way to pay off my student debts, which at that rate, would only take two or three more years.

I had just stepped out the front door of the frat house when my phone pinged with a text message.

Thanks for the Woody. I’ve never had one before and they’re fun to play with. Oh shit! I just sent you my number, didn’t I? Dammit. I guess you’ll have to call me sometime.

My night was now complete. I went back to the yard, found the almost empty keg, downed another beer, and tossed the cup into the bushes. Time to—

“—go, Murphy,” I say aloud, and get up from the log.

Murphy, who’s been lying on the soft needles trying to chew his red tennis ball into oblivion, jumps up to join me.

We need to get back. I want to double check that there’s nothing suspicious at the cottage before the next guests arrive.

*

We arrive back at the cottage and everything is as it should be.

Since he’s already wet from our hike, I throw Murphy’s ball into the pond a couple of times. He gleefully plunges into the water after it. Soon, it’ll be too cold but for now, he doesn’t seem to mind. I throw it one more time. When he brings it back to the shore, he signals that he’s done with our game by ignoring my requests to bring the ball to me, and carries it up to the porch, where he goes back to work trying to destroy it.

*

The Shermans arrive at three on the dot.

They park their Buick in front of the cottage and get out. They’re an older, retired couple and present quite the picture. She’s tiny. I’m guessing not more than five feet tall, with unnaturally brown hair with gray roots, and bright red lipstick. Mr Sherman is six foot four, with tired eyes and a drooping neck. She’s full of energy. He’s decidedly not.

She starts walking towards me, all smiles and a slight limp.

“Are you Jacob?” she asks.

“That would be me. You must be Linda.”

“Yes, indeed, and this is my husband Franklin.” She gestures to him with a flash of her hand.

I nod. “Pleased to meet you both. Any problems finding the place?”

“Oh, no. I’m the navigator for our little trip, and I got us here without a hitch, didn’t I, Franklin?”

“Yes, you di—”

“Yep, without a hitch.”

I glance over at Franklin. He may have had more to say, but his expression lets me know that this is probably the way of their conversations.

Linda turns slowly, I assume on account of a bum hip, and takes a deep breath. “Well, this really is beautiful.”

Murphy awakes from his nap on the porch and comes down to join us.

“And there’s Murphy!” she exclaims.

Murphy approaches, and she gives his head a good scratch. I’m glad he’s tired. His standard energetic greeting would have been too much for her.

“So, I read in your reservation that you two were doing a little Haunted New England tour?” I ask.

“Oh, yes. We’re hitting all the haunted sites, aren’t we, Franklin?”

“Yep. We came fro—”

“We came from Salem,” she quickly interjects. “Spent a few days there, hoping to see some ghosts.”

“Any luck?”

“No. Beautiful town, but a little bit of a let-down. Too touristy, right, Franklin?”

“It was a little crowd—”

“So many people. Too many people, and they were dressed up in costumes. We may have seen a ghost. Who knows? But I don’t think we did. I have to confess, I’m psychic about such things.”

“Really?” I ask, playing along.

“Oh, yes.”

“Well, I also saw in your reservation request that you were heading over to Maine after this, so maybe you’ll have better luck there.”

“We’re hoping to find some ghosts here in The Hollows.” She gets a giddy smile. “Oh, I love that name. The Hollows.” She savors the words. I don’t have the heart to tell her that the name was the result of a frustrated surveyor. “We stopped in Tarrytown, too. That’s the real name of Sleepy Hollow. Nice place, but too modern. No luck with any ghosts there, either. But maybe here in The Hollows. I mean, there are ghosts everywhere you know, and I have to tell you, I’m getting a strong sensation from this place. So, you have to have some ghosts, here.”

I shrug. “Not that I know of. We had our own little witch trial way back in the sixteen hundreds, where three women were hung from a tree in the Old Stone Church cemetery, but nothing else.”

She waves me off. “We’ll find ’em. Won’t we, Franklin?”

“We’ll look for—”

“Yep. We’ll find ’em.”

“Well, I certainly wish you happy hunting, and even if you don’t, you’ll still love the cottage. Do you need help with your luggage?”

“No, thank you, dear. Franklin can handle the bags, can’t you, Franklin?”

This time, Franklin only grunts an affirmation.

“Great. Well, the key is in the lockbox. I have to head into town. If you’re out tonight, you can come see me at the coffee shop on Main Street. It’s called Groundworks, and you can tell me how your ghost hunt went.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

“If you need anything, you have my number?”

“Sure do.”

“All right, then. Welcome to The Hollows.”

“Mmmmm, The Hollows,” she says once again, relishing in the words.

“Come on, Murphy,” I say, and start walking towards the truck. He follows, and a few moments later, we pull out of the drive and head towards town.

*

They’ve finally started bringing in the tents on the green for the Halloween celebration. Extra picnic tables have also started appearing for the face-painting, pumpkin-carving classes, and food stalls that will arrive soon. More decorations are going up along Main Street. Orange and black ribbons adorn the gas lamps, and jack-o’-lanterns are popping up in the shop windows. The Hollows does not mess around when it comes to Halloween. It prepares the same way New York might prepare for New Year’s, or Boston for St. Patrick’s Day.

Groundworks is already jumping by the time I get there. Todd and Sheila are in the weeds, trying to keep up with the ever-growing line that is almost to the door. I hop behind the counter and go into machine mode, cranking out drinks left and right. Murphy finds his bed by the register and sinks in. Just his presence soothes some of the nerves of the customers who have been waiting for their lattes, coffees, and cappuccinos.

For the next few hours, it’s turn and burn. I try to stay three steps ahead. Organize, prioritize, move, and above all, smile.

I need this.

The constant movement and concentration send the thoughts of last night and this morning further and further from my mind.

Eight o’clock rolls around.

Sheila flips the sign on the door to state that we’re closed, even though there are still people in the shop. We’ll let them finish their drinks, but no one else can come in. This leads to the nightly ritual of having to turn away some disappointed people. Most accept it and move on. Others plead. Some of them are belligerent. It’s the same every night.

When the last of the customers leave, I tell Shelia and Todd that they can head home. I’ll finish up on my own. I thank them for their hard work, and give them their paychecks. When the franchise deal works out, I’m giving them big, fat bonuses. They don’t know that, yet.

Finally, Murphy and I have the store to ourselves. I sweep and mop the floor, restock the stations, and wipe down the machines. I take the garbage to the dumpster in the parking lot out back. Once all the grunt work is done, Murphy and I go to the office. I slip into the swivel chair at the cluttered desk. I bring up the accounting software and get ready for the tedium of running the reports and processing all the credit card—

“—payments?”

“Yeah, Reggie. I got the payments,” I said, taking the envelope out of my jacket and handing it to him.

He painstakingly started to count it by the headlights of his Dodge Challenger, seemingly oblivious to the fact that if a cop drove by, he’d ask what we were doing parked on the side of the road in the woods, counting a stack of money.

“It’s all there, Reggie.”

He glared down the cigarette that was clamped in his lips at me. “Why the fuck would I trust you?”

I decided to keep my mouth shut.

As he hunched over the hood to count the cash, I caught a glimpse of the grip of the massive gun he had tucked into the waistband of his jeans, hidden under his jacket.

He finished counting.

“We happy?” I asked.

“Yeah, we happy.”

He shuffled the large stack of bills, and hit them on the hood of the car to line them up with a tap, tap—

—tap.

The tap on the shop window startles me.

Murphy barks.

I walk out of the office and into the restaurant to see a young couple standing at the door.

“Are you open?” the girl asks in exaggerated tones, as if the glass is soundproof. She also apparently can’t read the sign, or notice the fact that no one is in here.

Still, gotta keep that smile.

“Sorry. We’re closed,” I say.

They move on.

I hit the lights to make sure anyone else who can’t read knows that we’re closed.

*

When I arrive home, the lights are on in the cottage. From the porch, I can see into the living room. Linda Sherman is talking on her phone. Franklin is sitting on the couch, watching TV. I have a feeling this is reminiscent of a lot of their nights at home.

Maybe I should go down there, play the cheerful host, and see how their day went …

Nah. It’s been a long day. I’m going to bed.

*

I wake up early, shower, and brew some coffee. I look out the kitchen window and see the Shermans are packing up the car. I’ll go ask them about their stay and wish them safe travels.

I step onto the porch. Murphy’s right there beside me. I walk past the truck and make another mental note about fixing that stupid taillight.

Linda sees me, waves, and starts walking towards me. She’s excited. Even from this distance, I see Franklin roll his eyes and begin to follow. The walking takes a little bit of effort for her, so I go to meet her halfway. She must be really excited, because her limp is less pronounced than yesterday.

“Good morning!” she calls.

“Good morning, Mrs Sherman. How was your stay?”

“Wonderful! Such a perfect little town.”

“Did you do some exploring?”

“We sure did. We saw so many old houses, and we stopped by the ‘Hanging Tree’ in the church cemetery. So creepy.”

“Great,” I say because apparently “creepy” is good.

Why is she looking at me so strangely? Like we have some sort of inside joke?

I glance over to Franklin. He looks tired and, if I’m not mistaken, apologetic. She’s still waiting.

“Well, how does our little town compare to Salem?” I ask. “Did you see any ghosts?”

“Not in town,” she replies with a wink, and waits.

“I … I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

“I said not in town.”

“So … you’re saying you did see a ghost?”

She nods, downright giddy, but says nothing.

“I’m still not— Well, where did you see one?”

“We saw one here!” she says with a clap of her hands. “I told you! This place is so old and the town has history and ghosts are everywhere! I said that, didn’t I, Franklin? Didn’t I say that ghosts were everywhere?”

“Yes, you d—”

“And I was right! I just knew it!”

“I’m sorry. I’m still confused. You’re saying you saw a ghost … here?”

She playfully slaps my wrist. “Oh, don’t sound so surprised. You knew. I could tell you knew there was a ghost here when we met, yesterday.”

I glance at Franklin. He shrugs, indicating that I should play along.

“Really? So, uh, what happened?” I ask.

“Well, in the middle of the night, I thought I heard something outside by the door. Franklin heard it, too. Didn’t you, Franklin?”

“Yes, but I—”

“He thought it was deer or something, so he didn’t get up, but I knew. I told you, I have a psychic feel for these things.” She taps her temple for emphasis. “So, I got up and went to the living room, and there she was, standing just off the porch by the front door! She was looking right at me!”

My mouth is dry. My lungs aren’t working properly, and I’m trying desperately to hide it from her.

“She?” I ask.

“Yes! It was a woman ghost!”

“That’s—that’s incredible.”

“I know! Incredible! She was right there!” she says, pointing to a spot near the fire pit.

“So, um, wh—what happened?”

“Well, we stared at one another for a few seconds, and then she smiled at me, and started walking towards the woods. I yelled at Franklin to get up. I yelled, ‘Franklin, get up! You need to see this!’ Didn’t I, Franklin? Didn’t I yell for you to get up?”

“Yes, you did—”

“But he didn’t get up, did you, Franklin?”

“No, I d—”

“He didn’t get up. So, I ran outside and, well, I don’t run so fast,” she says, patting her hip, “and by the time I got out onto the porch, I just caught a glimpse of her as she walked into the trees.” She points again, this time to the path behind the cottage, leading off into the woods to The Sanctuary.

“That’s amazing,” I croak. My throat feels like sandpaper. “What did she look like?”

“Oh, she was beautiful. She was tall, with long red hair, and these really blue eyes. She wore a cloak. And, I’m not sure, but it looked like she had a scar, here, just above her eye.”




Chapter 3 (#uc998425c-763a-51a1-9b41-6aaf72a162cf)


“Hello?”

“Maggie, it’s Jacob Reese.”

“Ah, Mr Coffee! How’s it going? Calling to talk smack about the costume contest?”

“Actually, I called to see if you’ve got any rooms available over there at the Elmwood Hotel.”

There’s an understandable pause before she replies. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. I had a pipe burst in the cottage, and I need to redirect some guests for a few nights.”

“Well, the only thing I have available is the Rose Suite.”

“The Rose Suite?”

“Yeah.”

“Come on, Maggie. When I need a room, the only one available happens to be the most expensive room in your hotel?”

“You think I’m lying?”

“No. Sorry. That came out way too— I’m really sorry, Maggie. It’s been a long couple of days, and I’m on edge.”

“Listen,” she says, her tone softening not one bit, “normally I wouldn’t have anything available, but that rent-a-room bullshit is creeping into The Hollows. You’ve got people staying at your place all the time. Now, other people are renting out their spare rooms. So, yeah, I have a room available, but only because of people like you. The Rose Suite is all I’ve got. Take it or leave it.”

She’s right, and I feel like a jerk. “Maggie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insinuate that you were lying. Of course, I’ll take the Rose Suite. How many consecutive nights can I get?”

Now, her tone softens. “Wow. That must be some burst pipe. You call Stuart yet?”

Stuart Delholm is the local plumber. If I say I called Stuart, she might run into him, and ask about the cottage. I want to keep everything under wraps.

“No. It’s too big a job for Stuart. I called a bigger operation out of Burlington.”

“Jeez. That’s rough. Let me see how many nights I’ve got …”

I hear her typing. I can just imagine her at the front desk of the Elmwood, back perfectly straight, smile plastered on her cheeks as she greets incoming guests.

“I’ve got twelve consecutive nights, starting tonight.”

“I’ll take ten.”

Ten nights is the minimum cancellation notice policy for Be Our Guest.

Maggie lets out a light whistle. “Damn, Jacob.”

I’m sure she feels bad for me, but won’t have a problem pocketing the three grand I’m giving her.

“Do you want my credit card?” I ask.

“Nah. I know you’re good for it. You can drop by the hotel whenever you want.”

“Thanks.”

“Jacob?”

“Yeah?”

“Listen, despite what I said a little bit ago, I really am sorry. I know that it’s going to be a hard hit for your place’s reputation.”

“Thanks. I’ll be back up in no time.”

*

After hanging up with Maggie, I call Be Our Guest and give them the lie about the burst pipe, but reassure them that I’ve found comparable accommodations for my guests. I also cancel all reservations for the next three months. The representative on the other end of the line is dumbfounded. I keep getting passed up the ladder until I’m talking to a regional executive who says that Be Our Guest will send a plumber and an inspector to get me back up in three days. That’s how important my place is to them. I turn him down.

Then, the strong-arming attempts begin. He starts talking about Be Our Guest’s policies and that I may be in violation, but I’m ready for it. I’m doing everything by the book. He points out that I’m turning down thousands of dollars. I tell him I’m aware of that, as well. He argues that even if I do get back up after three months, my reputation might be permanently damaged unless I can get everything repaired as soon as possible. I’m not swayed. I’m going dark for three months.

Hopefully, this will all be sorted by then … whatever “this” is.

*

It’s not my day to be at the shop, but I want the distraction. I can’t sit at the house, staring out the window, waiting for Laura to wander out of the forest.

Sandy lights up when she sees Murphy and I walk in.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, steaming a cappuccino.

“Wanted to help out.”

She motions to the growing line of customers. “Have at it.”

I hop behind the counter. Murphy retreats to his bed near the register. Instantly, he starts to receive the fawning attention he is accustomed to. I always know when someone is petting him because I can hear his tail thumping on the floor.

I go about taking orders, changing filters, and unloading the small dishwasher behind the counter. I’m good for a while, but as the day drags on, it becomes painfully obvious that I’m off my game. I can’t keep the image of Laura out of my head.

It can’t be her. It’s not possible.

“So, that was one chai latte, a caramel mocha, and an iced tea?” I ask, repeating an order to a customer.

The old lady blinks at me from behind her thick glasses. “No. It was a regular latte for me, and a hot chocolate for my husband.”

“I had the chai latte,” the guy in front of her says.

“I had a hot tea, but not an iced tea,” the lady behind the old woman chimes in.

I shake my head. “Right, right, right. Sorry. My bad.”

I turn to start correcting my mistakes and notice that Sandy is looking at me.

“You all right, boss?”

“Yeah. I’m fine. Just not firing on all cylinders today.”

She’s slow to look away, but is forced to when she hands change to a customer.

I whip up the latte, steam the milk for the hot chocolate, and hand it to the guy.

“Here you go,” I say. “Latte and a hot chocolate.”

“Nope,” he says, and points to the old lady behind him, who’s looking at me like I’m crazy.

I curse under my breath. “Sorry. Here’s your latte and your hot—

“—chocolate,” the barista said, handing the Styrofoam cup to Laura. I was already putting cream and sugar in my coffee at the station next to the counter.

We found a small table at the back of the coffee shop, which was located on Franklin Street, next to Wilton University’s campus.

“I can’t believe you’re drinking coffee at eight o’clock in the evening,” Laura said, sliding into the seat. “You’re gonna be up all night.”

“Then so will you,” I replied with my best roguish smile.

She blushed, and took a long sip from her hot chocolate.

Afterwards, we took our time and simply wandered through Rutland. We strolled down Merchants Row, laughing at the drunken students staggering out of the different bars. The conversation flowed, but there was the tension of who would be the first to say it—a tension that grew as it got later.

“So, where to?” I asked.

“My roommate is visiting her parents. Sooooo … back to my place?”

From that moment on, we knew where the evening was heading. We didn’t say much else, and I tried to not quicken my stride in anticipation. It was a little corny going back to her dorm room, but those blue eyes and red hair wiped away any reservations I had.

We arrived at the door to her dorm, and she swiped the key card over the sensor. There was a buzzing and the lock clicked. She pulled the door open, and we entered the foyer. She quickly led me off to the right, down a short hallway, and into the stairwell. As we reached the first landing, I wrapped my arm around her waist. She turned to face me and we kissed. We staggered against the wall. Our hands were everywhere, and we fought to balance our kissing with the need to breathe. A door opened somewhere above us. We tried to separate, but it was useless. A mousy brunette descended the stairs and walked past.

“Get a room,” she muttered.

“Almost there!” Laura laughed.

The brunette rolled her eyes at us. Laura flipped her the bird. I laughed into the nape of her neck. She gave me one more kiss and took my hand.

“Come on,” she said, pulling me up the stairs.

We came out into the third-floor hallway. It was lit by harsh halogen lamps. She gave me a quick glance over her shoulder as she moved from one pool of light to another. Every step was foreplay. I was hypnotized by the sway of her hips and the bouncing curls of her hair.

We passed door after door. Mounted on the wall next to each one was a small whiteboard. Some of the whiteboards had messages written on them. Most were short, telling the occupant how awesome they were. Others had funny quotes. I glimpsed one as I passed that read, “May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in Him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit. ~ Romans 15:13”. Under which, someone had written, “God don’t give a shit.”

We arrived at the door marked #317. She took out a key, slid it into the lock, twisted, and pushed it open.

Upon first glance, it was the model of your typical college dorm. There was that invisible line that ran down the center of the room, dividing it in half. The left half had a total “emo” motif, with posters for The Misfits and My Chemical Romance on the walls. The other side was more standard and subdued, except for the large poster of Jesus on the wall next to the bed. He was ascending to Heaven from the cross, surrounded by angels. It sucked all the attention from the room, so much so that I forgot about my erection.

“Um … okay … Which side is yours?”

“Guess.”

I pointed to the “emo” side. “This one?”

“Nope.”

“Seriously?” I asked, fixated on the Jesus poster.

“Yeah. I know it’s a little much, but it’s only in case my mom makes a surprise visit.”

“Does that happen often?”

“She insists on keeping tabs on me.”

Hooking up was still in the cards, but I felt that we had taken a detour and I was intrigued.

“So, you’re saying that poster is only for your mother’s benefit?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re not a believer?”

“Nope.”

Her tone. Her eyes. Her slight frown. There was a lot in that “nope”.

“Interesting. Well, let’s see what else I can find out about you,” I said, scanning the shelves and desk.

She dropped onto the bed. “Do your worst.”

“Hmmmmm …” I said, tapping my finger to my chin as I moved to the photos on the desk. I focused on a silver-framed photo of her in a cheerleading outfit.

“Cheerleader?”

“Brilliant, Sherlock.”

I moved to another photo of her with an older woman who had beady eyes and thin brown hair. “Mother?”

“Yep.”

“Where’s your dad?” I regretted the question as soon as it escaped my lips, but she was unfazed.

“Died when I was three.”

“Oh … sorry.”

She shrugged. “Never really knew him.”

I went to the row of scrapbooks on the shelf. There were five of them, each with a different pattern. I slid the first one off the shelf and opened it. On the first page was the same beady-eyed woman from the photo on the desk. She was holding a baby in her arms and smiling, while a man in his forties stood behind them.

“Ah, there’s Dad.”

I started flipping through the pages. I watched her grow up through the photos. There were a few of her as a baby, her face smeared with birthday cake.

“Wow. You really liked cake.”

She lay back on the bed. “All right. Enough.”

“Hold on, hold on.”

I flipped a couple more pages. There were photos of her learning to ride a bike, and more than a few of her at church. I came to a photo of Laura dressed as an angel, standing in front of a Christmas tree. If I had to guess, I would have said she was about five. I held the book open to her. “Now that is adorable.”

She reached for the scrapbook.

“No, no, no, no,” I said, pulling it away.

She watched me with a delicious smile.

I snapped the scrapbook closed and returned it to its spot. I continued down the shelf to an ornate wooden box. The letters ‘L.A.’ in intricate script were burned into the lid. I reached to open it.

“Please, don’t,” she said.

I couldn’t tell if she was being sincere or playful. Being the jerk that I was, I went ahead and lifted the lid.

A delicate ballerina in a green dress on a spindle rose and began to slowly spin over a glittering glass-beaded surface. There was a mirror mounted to the underside of the lid that was surrounded by a mosaic of blue glass. The mirror and blue glass caught the light that bounced from the beads and scattered soft spots of light over the ballerina. The notes of a haunting waltz filled the room. It was something out of a dream. I was hypnotized by the tiny figure with arms outstretched, slowly twisting to the melody.

“I told you not to open it.”

“It’s beautiful,” I said.

“My dad gave it to me. Mom said it was the only thing that could get me to sleep as a baby.”

I couldn’t take my eyes off the ballerina. The slow rotation, and the way the figure caught the light, gave the illusion that she was actually moving to the tune.

“Hey,” Laura said, snapping me out of it.

I turned.

She was lying back on the bed with a seductive smile. “I’m right here.”

Everything came back into focus.

I closed the box and moved to the bed. She laughed, and we were right back to where we were on the stairs—breathlessly kissing, our tongues darting over one another. Our hands wouldn’t stop. She pulled her shirt over her head, revealing an emerald bra.

I shook my head. “Okay, I have to ask—do you coordinate your bra with your hair? Because that is too perfect.”

“Shut up,” she said and bit my lower lip.

More kissing. More fumbling. My shirt flew above my shoulders and landed on the floor. It was a race to see who could unbutton the other’s jeans first. I won by virtue of the fact that I had a belt and she didn’t. I flicked the tab of her zipper down in an exaggerated fashion, which created a cartoonish sound effect. She laughed and pulled my belt through the loops of my jeans in her own ridiculous gesture. We slowed. The kissing became more passionate. More purposeful.

My phone buzzed.

I pulled back a fraction.

“Let it go,” she whispered, trying to catch up in the “zipper race”.

It buzzed, again.

I sighed and lowered my head to avoid another kiss. “I can’t. It’s my work phone.”

She took my face in her hands. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, and pulled away.

She let out an exasperated sigh.

I took the phone from my pocket and checked my messages.

Need to pay a visit to Dara. Account past due.

“Fuck,” I whispered.

It was code from Reggie. Our messages were always coded. There was no Dara, but I knew what the message meant.

“I’m really sorry, but I have to go. It’s urgent,” I said.

I stood up and found my shirt and belt. After hastily putting myself back together, I went for the door.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

I turned back to look at her.

Her sparkling eyes. Her hair draping over the pillow. Her smooth pale skin. She was one of—no. She was the sexiest thing I had ever seen.

I went over to kiss her.

“I’m really sorry,” I said.

We kissed, and she playfully bit my lip again.

“One day, you’re going to have to tell me what it is you do,” she said.

“I told you. I do IT consulting. They call at all hours of the day and night.”

Her face clouded. “No. What you really do.”

I kissed her one last time. “Gotta go.”

I finished latching my belt, and went for the door. Before stepping through, I glanced back. She was still lying on the bed in her bra and unfastened jeans.

She waved her fingers as if to say, “toodle-oo”.

“Dammit,” I whispered, and left.

*

The hour-long drive to Lyndon, home of Lyndon University, was excruciating. All I could think about was the image of Laura, lying on that bed.

I was finally able to put it out of my mind as I arrived at the squat, brick house a few blocks from the small campus. I got out, walked up onto the porch, and knocked on the door.

It took way too long, but the door was finally answered by Mattie Donovan.

Mattie appeared to have aged ten years from when we used to hang out just last year. He was still a perpetual slacker, and I told him that he needed to get his act together if he wanted to keep doing business. He was still a good guy, just sloppy.

His eyes were bloodshot, and the smell of weed emanated from the open door.

“Hey, Mattie,” I said.

“… shit,” he replied.

“Good to see you, too.”

I stepped past him into the living room, and things were already wrong.

Two guys I had never seen before were sitting on the couch, completely baked, and staring at the television. The coffee table in front of them was littered with spent cigarettes, bags of chips, a bong, and a glass vial next to a pipe. The only sources of illumination in the room were the television and some Christmas lights strung around the borders of the ceiling. Bedsheets covered the windows.

Mattie closed the door behind me.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked. “We’ve got weed, but if you want something harder, I think we have some—”

“No.”

“You want a soda or something?”

“Mattie, you know why I’m here.”

“Um … no, man. I don’t, uh, I don’t know.”

“You’re behind on your payment.”

He scratched the back of his neck, trying hard to feign confusion. This wasn’t like Mattie. He could be a fuck-up from time to time, but he had never lied to me.

“Really? You sure about that? I thought I paid.”

“Come on, Mattie.”

“No, yeah. I paid Reggie. Like, last week, I paid him.”

“Mattie, Reggie sent me.”

I noticed that the two guys on the couch, while still high, were intensely watching our conversation.

“Oh … Really?” Mattie asked, stalling for time.

“Who are your friends?” I asked with a nod towards the couch.

“They’re just friends, you know? From out of town.”

The guy with blotchy skin and the bad haircut, sitting on the far end of the couch, flicked his eyes towards the darkened hallway off of the kitchen that led to the bedrooms.

“Is that some of your inventory?” I asked, pointing to the table. “Because if it is, and you’re behind on payments, I sure hope your friends have paid for it. Also, if you’re keeping your stuff here with the money, you know how bad that is.” I was going for bravado, but I worried that I had overplayed it.

Mattie nervously snorted. “Yeah, yeah. Of course, they paid for it.”

“Great. Then you can give me the cash, I’ll get out of here, and you can continue to entertain your guests from out of town.”





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