Page 1 of Home to the Hollow

VolumeOne

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“I’m sorry; could you repeat that?”

Looking at the agent in front of me in disbelief, I lean forward as if changing my position will alter the words that came out of his mouth. He grimaces, clearly unused to relaying this news to prospective trainees. After a moment of silence that feels oppressive, he clears his throat. I wait, unwilling to make his job easier.

“Miss… Whitley,” he begins, pulling at the knot on his tie as he stands. He walks around the mahogany desk, coming to lean against the corner diagonal to me.

The crisp navy suit is standard government official, and the Harvard stripe on his tie tells me all I need to know about his upbringing. This guy grew up with a silver spoon in his mouth and rose up the ranks in the F.B.I. by playing politics. Handling a situation like mine is probably not his typical task, and I wonder why they chose him for this duty. I meet his gaze steadily, having learned the tricks of his trade from years of dealing with CEOs and officials with significantly more status than him.

He sighs, clearly disappointed that I’m not a blubbering mess. His wife—I can see the ring on his hand—is probably a sorority belle from UV that lets him run roughshod over her to secure her position as trophy wife. This man has aims much higher than his current position in the DOJ, and he’s less than thrilled to be here speaking with me.

“Miss Whitley. As I said, I cannot release the information used to make hiring decisions. You can make a FOIA request, if you so choose, but I was told that because of the circumstances of your childhood, that request is likely to remain classified.”

“Circumstances of my… I grew up in a small town in the Midwest, not Beirut! My parents were teachers, for the love of God. They have awarded me three degrees, and I developed a career consulting with governments and CEOs of multi-national corporations! I haveneverfailed a background check, Agent Grant. This is outrageous.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, he sighs again, running a hand over his slicked back hair. “I cannot speak to that. I can only relay the information that we have denied your application, and that re-applying during another session will not change the results. You simply cannot work for the F.B.I. or any other agency under the Department of Justice.”

I stand, infuriated beyond all reason. My eyes flash with anger as I stare him down. “This isnotover, Agent Grant. I ammorethan qualified. There is not one blemish on my record. I deserve to be here. I will fight this decision tooth and nail—I have aimed all of my education and training at working within the behavioral unit of this agency.”

Shaking his head, he pushes off the desk and drops back into the luxurious chair. “You can do what you wish, Miss Whitley, but the answer will remain the same. I suggest you focus your considerable talents and effort on finding another career path—one that is actually open to you.”

My face is a mask of shock, but I quickly school it, picking up my purse and turning on my heel to stalk out of his office. I wasn’t lying; I intend to fight this to the fucking Supreme Court if necessary. I’ve been working towards being a member of the profiling team since I left teaching, and I have every confidence that I can prove that I’m not only qualified, but in no way a security risk.

Howdarethey turn down my application and refuse to give me a reason? That can’t be legal! It’s a government position; they have to release the records if I request them. But the agent seemed to believe that I’d run into a brick wall with such a request, so there’s something going on. Did I piss off some diplomat while I was in Europe and not realize it? Is someone pulling the strings to destroy my career?

I look around and realize that I’ve exited the building and I’m standing in the elevator to the parking structure. I was so angry that I made my way back to my car completely on autopilot. I check my pocket and realize that I even signed out and returned the visitors’ badge. Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes.

It’s been a long time since I was so angry that I had a functioning black out. The last time was when my parents got killed and because of my assignment, I couldn’t come home for their funeral. The time before that was the last day I worked in a school. Both times, I lost time like this—I was functioning like a regular person to everyone around me, but when I came to, I had no idea what I’d done during that period. It usually lasts for weeks, but this time, it was only about fifteen minutes.

Clicking the remote to my car, I climb in and rest my forehead on the steering wheel. Each time this happened in the past, I spent months piecing together what happened while I was out. Through careful interrogation and immaculate people skills, I could recreate every minute of the lost time and record it in the journal I’ve been keeping since childhood. The school therapist always made me show her the journals to prove that I recovered my memories from the episodes.

Andromeda Bane wasnota woman to be trifled with and even the kids and teens at the schools knew it.

I sigh. I haven’t thought of her for a long time. The image of her powerful features and kind eyes fills my mind, and I reach up to wipe a tear from the corner of my eye. She clearly brooked no shit, but she was always available when I needed her. Her name was a threat and a prayer at Whistler’s Hollow Formative and Finishing Schools. Those of us who grew up under her care defended her to the others—the ones who landed in her office because of intentional misbehavior rather than diagnoses.

My head lifts, and I sniffle, my heart crushed at what may be the end of my dreams. Perhaps it is time that I go home and face the place where my parents died. I haven’t been there since I moved back to the States because I can’t bear to see my childhood home without my parents in it. When they died, I used a state-side attorney to settle their affairs and hired a service to come in and air the house out every couple of months. I couldn’t bear to sell it, although I never intended to return to the Hollow. It took my parents, and I never wanted to see it again.

But without the F.B.I. training, there’s nothing for me in Richmond. I moved here when I came home from Europe so that I’d be in proximity to my dream, and if that truly is impossible, there’s no reason for me to stay. Most of my belongings are still in storage despite living here for two years. I needed little creature comforts to work at the college while I finished my doctorate in Clinical Psychology online. I’ve been a nomad for so long that I haven’t taken the time to develop relationships or put down roots here—even my lease is month-to-month.

It occurs to me I’ve been sitting in my car in the lot for a long time. If anyone walked by, they’d think that I’ve lost my marbles. I need to get home, make myself a drink, and think about this.

I never thought I’d be considering moving back to Whistler’s Hollow.

Unfortunately, the past is no longer in the past.

Who Says You Can’t Go Home?

The living room is nearly done.

I’ve been slowly donating the things that I won’t need. My forced career change has made some of my personal effects useless, and some things I left in storage necessary. I’ll need everything I left tucked away to make my new life work.

Wiping my brow, I stop to chug the last bit of my energy drink. In most of the places I lived around the continent, I drank coffee in various forms, like it was the blood in my veins. Once I crossed the pond, the quality of my favorite ‘go-juice’ dropped immensely, so I switched to the much more American energy drinks. The sweet taste makes me sigh. It’s not coffee, but it does the job.

My arms burn as I go back to stacking boxes in numerical order. I definitely worked my ass off today. I’ll load up the last of the boxes tomorrow, and all I have left to put together are the items I will have with me in the truck. I could have taken a plane and hired movers, but I decided that rather than deal with lines and TSA checks, I would use the drive to prepare myself for small town life.

The smaller cities I lived in while I worked in Europe have a similar vibe to them, but American small towns are simply different. The customs, the people, and the way the community interacts are unique in every region. Despite having lived in Whistler’s Hollow most of my life, adjusting to their particular brand of friendliness and venom will be jarring. I didn’t have a terrible time in school, but I also didn’t have an easy one. My parents weren’t part of the old money, ruling elite, and those kids made certain that us commoners knew our place.

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