The Hollow Inside

by Brooke Lauren Davis

  I’m trying to lead him subtly into telling me where he lives, but he just smiles and nods along until I ask outright, “Does your house have a nice view?”

  I wince internally, hoping that I haven’t pushed too far. But then he says, “Yep. I’ve been blessed with one of the nicest, if I do say so myself.”

  He points over my shoulder, and I turn to look out the bakery’s windows. One of the mountains looms beyond it, and about halfway up, there’s a house. “Kinda hard to miss,” he adds with a laugh, like he’s a little embarrassed.

  He’s right. It’s big and white, looming over the whole town. Poised in the perfect place for everyone to keep an eye on the Bowmans and for them to keep an eye on everyone else.

  When I turn back, I study Neil for a moment. Sure, he has a strong resemblance to his dad. But that doesn’t necessarily mean he likes him. Maybe he knows what kind of man his father is. Maybe he’s the Bowman black sheep, ready to blow the lid off his own family’s scandals. Maybe he’ll be on my side.

  “It must have been the perfect childhood,” I say, hoping he’ll divulge that it was anything but.

  To my disappointment, he agrees. “Pretty much.”

  “No complaints, huh?”

  He takes a bite of his cinnamon roll. “Nothing that comes immediately to mind.”

  I shake my head. “Jasper Hollow just seems so . . . ​quaint. Too good to be true, you know?” I keep my tone light, like I’m joking when I add, “There’s got to be something wrong with it.”

  “Oh, there is.” He crooks his finger, and I lean in so he can tell me in a conspiratorial whisper, “We have a lawn statue bandit.”

  I frown. “A what?”

  “A lawn statue bandit,” he repeats, very seriously. “All summer, any kind of statue anyone puts out in their yard is gone by the morning. Gnomes, Virgin Marys, flamingos—you name it. Nobody knows who’s doing it, or why. They’ve never left a ransom note behind.”

  He can’t help the slight smile that curls one corner of his mouth. I fight the urge to roll my eyes, but I play along. “How . . . ​ upsetting.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” he says. “But there’s been this argument going for months about what it all means. Some claim that the bandit is doing the town a favor, ridding us of a plight of tacky lawn decor. Others claim it signifies the deterioration of morals in modern society. Lots of great, philosophical points on both sides. It’s all anyone’s been able to talk about on the community Face-book group all summer. According to my mom anyway.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  He leans back in his seat, unleashing the grin he’s been fighting. “I wish I were.” He adds, “Seriously, though, I know what you mean about Jasper Hollow seeming too perfect. We’ve all got our own problems under the surface, I’m sure. And I know that this town wasn’t always as nice as it is now. But ever since I’ve been around, it’s been a great place to grow up. I’ve got a good family. Good friends. What more could you ask for?”

  I nod, hoping the disappointment isn’t plain in my voice. “Sounds wonderful.”

  A moment later, his phone buzzes, and he excuses himself, taking the last bite of his cinnamon roll. “Gotta run,” he says through a mouthful. When he swallows, he adds, “Great to meet you. Hope I see you around.”

  When he’s gone, I drop the pleasant expression and let my face settle into its usual scowl. I down the rest of my coffee, mulling over the conversation.

  I gave him opportunities to complain about his dad, but he didn’t take the bait. Maybe he just didn’t want to share any bad blood between them with a stranger, but I don’t think so. When he said that he had a supportive family, his voice never wavered.

  And as nice as Neil was to me, if he considers himself his father’s ally, that makes him my enemy.

  -

  I meet Mom at the designated pickup location outside of town just as the sun is starting to set, streaking the sky in bands of orange and blue.

  She hardly glances at me as she starts the drive back up Pearl Mountain to the clearing. Like she’s already primed to be disappointed in me. But I’m eager to prove her wrong.

  “I met Neil Bowman,” I say, my voice too loud in the confined space.

  Mom casts a look sideways at me, her expression flat. “Oh?”

  “In Sugar House Bakery. He was there.”

  She waits for more.

  I lean in close. “I found out where he lives.”

  I’m about to tell her when she cuts me off. “It’s that monstrosity on Clara Mountain, isn’t it?”

  I feel my face fall. “How did you know?”

  She sighs. “Because he moved into it right before I left town. He’s wanted all his life to be significant. And that place is—significant.”

  Now that she’s ripped a hole in my sails, I sit in silence the entire bumpy way back up Pearl Mountain, dreading the question that I know will come next.

  And when she puts the van in park and cuts the engine, she turns her dark eyes on me and asks it. “What else?”

  I don’t have anything else. Unless she’d be amused by the lawn statue bandit story Neil told me. Somehow, I doubt that.

  I try to play it off. “It was a short conversation. He got a phone call and had to go. But it’s an opening, isn’t it? A way in.”

  “Who was the call from? Did you listen in?”

  “He walked away from the table before he answered it.”

  “You didn’t follow him? Didn’t try to see where he was going next?”

  When I don’t answer her right away, she nods. Let down. But not surprised.

  She doesn’t need to say a word. I feel everything that she’s thinking. That she’s second-guessing my value in this plan. That if she weren’t so recognizable, she would just do the job herself, and do it better. That maybe I’m more trouble than I’m worth.

  “I’ll find out more,” I say.

  “Yes,” she says. “You better.”

  Chapter 7

  WE WAIT UNTIL LATE that night to venture out again. The dark in Jasper Hollow is so different from the dark of other places—complete and swallowing. Anything outside the beam of our headlights is a void. It’s easy to lose what’s right in front of you.

  I feel the impossible height of Clara Mountain sweeping high above our mud-crusted little van. As we make the climb, I’m sure Mom knows these turns and curves well enough not to send us flying into the black. I am. But I can’t unclench my grip on the edges of my seat.

  The warm air flows over me through my rolled-down window, thick with the smell of what I can’t see—leaves, bark, and dirt. I’m more nervous than I should be. We’re just going to stake out the Bowman house, see what we can learn about the family by getting a feel for how they live. Easy.

  When we get close to the house, Mom pulls the van off the road, into a gap between the trees, and cuts the engine.

  She turns to me and gives me a long, meaningful look, dark eyes sparking in the glow of the dashboard lights. I nod like I can read her face, but actually, I’m still trying to figure out whatever secrets she was trying to impart when she gets out of the car and disappears into the trees. I hurry to follow her.

  I have to move quickly to keep the pace, never taking my eyes off her back. If I lose her here, I’m afraid I might not find her again. She told me to bring the camera with me, and it knocks against my chest with each step. She said she wanted me to take pictures of the house. She didn’t give me a reason beyond “they might be useful later.”

  We walk in absolute silence, and after the first mile or so, I’m about to ask her if we’re going the wrong way, but then the trees thin and something starts to take shape.

  We duck down low, keeping to the woods surrounding the large property while we take our first good look at the place. A nervous laugh tries to bubble up my throat, but I choke it down.

  If it’s not a mansion, you’d only need another foot or two to make it one. It sprawls over the mountain like it grew right out
of the ground, clean white with lots of tall windows bordered by shutters the same poppy-red color as the door. There are six white columns along the front, a porch that wraps all the way around, and an upstairs balcony. The flower beds are fat and happy, bursting into the yard.

  It’s big and beautiful, and it was built on the bones of Mom’s life. We can’t let ourselves forget that.

  I feel Mom stiffen beside me, and I follow her gaze to the big window that looks into the kitchen. There’s someone sitting cross-legged on the counter.

  I pull back farther into the trees, but he’s not looking at us. It’s Neil. We see him from the side; he’s in sweatpants, socks, and a white T-shirt, and it looks like he’s watching a TV that’s just out of our sight. He’s got a bowl cradled in his lap, and he scoops spoonfuls of something into his mouth.

  We both watch him for a few more minutes, keeping an eye on the other windows, waiting for movement anywhere else in the house. But it looks like Neil is the only one home.

  I realize I’m gripping the camera with both hands. Mom is still watching the house, her lips moving soundlessly, lost in her own thoughts. I know better than to even attempt speaking to her when she’s like this. So, while I wait, I decide to start taking pictures, like she told me to.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve actually used a camera, and certainly never one this nice. I can’t even recall a specific time in my memory when I held one, but I must have. I know that I’m supposed to hold my eye up to the viewfinder. I figure out quickly that there’s a little toggle that lets me zoom in and out, bringing Neil closer and farther away.

  I frame the whole house, kneeling in the grass to get the right angle. Then I press the button to take the picture.

  And then the dark fractures in an explosion of light.

  The flash. I forgot about the flash.

  It was so bright, I blink hard until my eyes readjust. But even when they do, I can’t see Mom. She’s not where she was crouched a moment ago.

  I lift my eyes to the window. And Neil is staring in my direction.

  “Phoenix!” A hushed snap in the dark. She’s already made a break for it, but I can’t tell in which direction. “Run.”

  Branches whip at my face, vines pull at my legs, and the trees whirl by so fast that all of them look the same, making me lose track of which way I’m going. I hear the crash of Mom running close by, but the churning branches hide her from me.

  The toe of my shoe catches on a root and throws me down on my hands and knees, skin tearing against rocks, wind knocked from my lungs when the camera gets crushed between my chest and the ground. I gulp down air, eyes watering.

  I hear the woods rustling nearby, and then the sound draws closer. I stagger to my feet, bracing for Mom to yank me by the arm and hiss something nasty in my ear for being so stupid. About how my carelessness just cost us our camera and our cover.

  But it isn’t Mom who pushes through the branches. It’s Neil. And the air gets knocked out of my lungs all over again.

  First, he asks, in a soft voice, “Are you all right?”

  And then, squinting until he’s sure his eyes have adjusted to the dark— “Phoenix?”

  This is bad.

  A photography student from Ohio State has no reason to be here. Especially not in the middle of the night. My story slips like sand through my fingers.

  I open my mouth, waiting for some lie to come to me. The right words to smooth all of this over. But the only thing that materializes is a half-baked idea to buy myself more time.

  I stumble, and Neil lurches forward, but I fall too fast for him to catch me. I hit the ground hard, and pain flashes through me when something cuts my cheek open, but I grit my teeth to stop myself from crying out and keep my eyes firmly closed, pretending that I’ve fainted.

  For a beat or two, all I can hear are windblown leaves hissing and insect wings drumming, and somewhere in these woods, Mom is holding her breath.

  I hear Neil come toward me. My heart pounds erratically, but I make all my muscles relax.

  He mutters, “Holy shit.” And then he slides one arm behind my neck and the other under my knees, and he lifts me off the ground.

  I want to peek through my eyelashes so badly, but I can’t risk it. The crunching sound under his shoes gives way to quiet grass, and I know he’s taking me to the house. There’s a hollow creaking as he climbs the stairs to the front door.

  I feel Mom’s eyes on us, and it takes everything in me not to jump out of this stranger’s arms and run to her.

  He fumbles to get the door open without jostling me too much. I hear it swing. Then he carries me inside and kicks it shut behind him, and the sound rings through me like a gunshot.

  My photography student story won’t work anymore. And any chances of me spying on the Bowmans from the fringes are gone.

  Time for a new plan. And this one, I’ll have to come up with all on my own.

  Chapter 8

  I FEEL THE COOL flush of air-conditioning against my skin. The smell inside the Bowman house makes me think of clean sheets, wood smoke, and cinnamon. A far cry from the van, which is usually saturated by the sour stench of dirty laundry and unwashed bodies.

  Neil eases me down on the couch with a whispered, “There you go.” I hear the floor creak when he steps back, probably to look me over. An incredulous half laugh escapes his lips, and I imagine him running his hands nervously through his curls.

  After a tense moment of silence, he tries shaking my shoulder, gently, and says, “Phoenix?”

  When I don’t answer, I feel his hesitant hands on me, and I fight the urge to open my eyes just to bite him—my first reaction when almost anyone touches me. But he’s only unhooking the camera from around my neck. It won’t be any good to me now, anyway—I heard it crack open when I fell.

  After that, he’s quiet for a few moments. Then I hear him walk out of the room.

  My instinct is to jump off the couch and escape while I still can. But the second he recognized me in the woods, it was too late to run. He heard my neat little cover story about being a photography student, and now, at the very least, he knows things are a hell of a lot messier than that.

  If I run, that means it’s over. I’d have to leave Jasper Hollow and never come back. And if I leave Jasper Hollow, if I don’t help Mom get her confession, she won’t want anything to do with me anymore.

  When I hear Neil come back into the room, I keep my eyes firmly closed. It sounds like he’s rattling through a box, looking for something. Then there’s a cold swab on my cheek. He cleans my cut and then smooths a bandage over it with steady hands. He does the same for my ragged palms, and I try not to wince at the cold sting of the antiseptic.

  Then his hand is on my forehead. The heel of his palm is big and rough against my skin. He takes it away, and I imagine he gauges it against the heat of his own, the way Mom and I have done for each other so many times. Then he pulls a heavy blanket over me and tucks it around my shoulders.

  He crouches next to me, leaning in close. I can feel the warmth of his breath on my hair.

  I hope he doesn’t notice me flinch when I hear the front door open. Keys clatter into a ceramic bowl, and a girl’s voice says, “Neil, you trailed in dirt again.”

  “I’ll get it later,” he calls back.

  “I know you think being completely oblivious to everything around you is cute. But it’s not cute.”

  “That’s one opinion.”

  I can’t be sure without looking at her, but from what Mom has told me about the Bowmans, this is probably Melody—Neil’s sister.

  The girl’s footsteps come into the room. “Yeah, well—”

  She must have spotted me finally. I don’t know exactly how I expect her to react. But when she does, I realize how lucky I am that Neil was the one who found me outside.

  “What the hell?”

  “What?” Neil says.

  She lowers her voice to a whisper, like she’s afraid I’ll overhear. “Who i
s that?”

  “Oh,” Neil says in mock surprise. “Her?”

  The girl growls an obscenity, and Neil laughs easily. “Her name is Phoenix,” he says. “I met her in town earlier.”

  There’s a long pause. Then she prompts, “And why is she passed out on our couch with a Darth Vader bandage on her face?”

  Darth Vader? The name ticks a distant memory—one of those movies my dad liked and kept saying we’d watch together when I got older.

  I feel the couch sink by my head when Neil sits down beside me. He brushes tangles from my face and presses his palm to my forehead again.

  “Neil.”

  “I found her passed out in the woods a few minutes ago.”

  There’s a beat of silence. “Well, that’s not suspicious. Why the hell was she lurking around our house?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m sure she’ll have a good explanation once she wakes up.”

  Damn, I really hope so.

  “Did she steal anything?”

  “No. Jesus. She’s been out this whole time.”

  “But have you been watching her the whole time?” Her voice gets even quieter. “How do you know she wasn’t just faking it so you’d let her in and she could cut our throats while we’re asleep?”

  I’d be offended by that if she weren’t right about the faking part.

  “Does she look like a murderer to you?” Neil says.

  “Lots of murderers are normal-looking people.”

  Neil scoffs. “I think she’s a little better than normal-looking.”

  Did he just call me hot?

  My stroked vanity waits for the girl to disagree, but she fires back, “Murderers can be attractive, too.”

  Attractive. I’ve always suspected it myself but never had anybody confirm it. Mom isn’t too forthcoming with compliments.

  I can hear the dismissive shrug in Neil’s voice. “She looks harmless to me.”

  Idiot.

  “Idiot,” the girl snaps, and I hear her footsteps retreating.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Calling Mom.”

  “She should be home any minute.”