Page 5 of Hollow

“I was just a kid when she died. My mom worked summers in your kitchen. I’d hide in the maze while she cooked.” He holds up a bottle to check it in the light. “Your grandmother caught me there once. Instead of getting mad, she taught me how to navigate it. Said kids should know escape routes since adults are the ones who build the traps.”

The image forms instantly: a serious-eyed boy learning secrets from my grandmother, the family matriarch whose stern portrait still dominates the dining room. Something tightens in my chest.

“I don’t remember you,” I say. I should, but I don’t.

“Of course not. We didn’t exactly run in the same circles. Yours was the house on visits. Mine was the grounds, year-round. Different worlds.”

“I guess...” A familiar twinge of guilt hits me. Spoiled rich girl syndrome. Too wrapped up in my own drama to notice anyone outside my bubble. I hate that about myself. Hate it even more when I live up to the stereotype. “I should get back to the house,” I say, suddenly feeling like an intruder in hisspace. “It’s getting late, but it was nice meeting you.”

Damiano nods, setting down the bottle. “Yeah.” He reaches into a drawer and pulls out something wrapped in brown paper. “Here. Put a spoonful in hot water before bed. Might help you sleep.”

I accept the package, our fingers brushing briefly. His skin burns against my ice-cold hand. “Is it poison?” I ask, only half-joking.

His eyes lock with mine, dark and unreadable. “I guess you’re just going to have to trust me.” He moves to open the door. “The maze looks better in the morning when the fog lifts a bit. I’m usually there early if you want a tour of all the changes I made.”

Outside, the cold hits me like a slap, the fog so thick I could reach out and grab handfuls. I clutch the little paper package, stupidly grateful for his strange gift.

“Thank you,” I say, simply.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he says, his tall figure filling the greenhouse doorway, backlit and imposing. “See if it works first. I hope it helps.”

I return to the house, feeling his eyes tracking me until I turn at the hedge that marks the maze entrance. In my pocket, I curl my freezing fingers around the package of herbs, my mind racing with questions about this strange man who talks about poisons and secret paths like they’re casual conversation topics.

Maybe island exile won’t be so boring after all.

Chapter 3

Briar

Morning hits me like a truck, yanking me out of the deepest sleep I’ve had since forever. Sunlight streams through the lace curtains—not the blackout ones I need in Seattle. The herbal stuff from Damiano sits half-empty on my nightstand. Whatever was in that cup knocked me out better than anything my doctors have prescribed in years.

I grab my phone, checking the time. 9:17 AM. Late, by my father’s standards. Three missed calls from him and a text:

Call me immediately. Need update on your condition.

Once again, notHow did you sleep?orHow are you feeling today?Just demanding his status report like I’m one of his business deals. I toss aside the phone without responding. Let him wait.

Downstairs, Mrs. Fletcher bustles around thekitchen, already preparing lunch. The aroma of fresh bread fills the air, comforting in its normality.

“Good morning.” She eyes me with approval. “You have color in your cheeks today. Did you sleep well?”

“Better than I have in months,” I admit, pouring myself coffee from the carafe. “Something about island air, I guess.”

She nods, but her gaze flicks toward the small brown paper package I’ve brought down with me. Damiano’s herbs. I’ve wrapped the remainder carefully, intending to ask him what exactly was in that mixture. Not that I don’t trust him—which is weird, considering I just met the guy—but my scientist brain wants details.

“I should have mentioned this yesterday, but I leave tomorrow for the weekend,” Mrs. Fletcher says, wiping her hands on her apron. “My sister in Anacortes is having her fiftieth wedding anniversary. I already told your father I’d be away for it.”

“That’s fine,” I say, sipping my coffee. It’s strong and perfect.

“I’ve left some meals for you in the fridge, all labeled with heating instructions.” She pauses, looking worried. “If you don’t want to be alone, I could ask Marjorie from town to stop by?—”

“I’ll be fine,” I cut in, maybe too quickly. “Seriously. I’m not dying.” I take another sip of my coffee. “I know my father may have painted a different picture, but I really can take care of myself.”

Her face says she’s not buying it, but she nods anyway. “Well, I’ve put emergency numbers on the fridge, including the island clinic.”

“Thank you.” I drum my fingers against the ceramic mug, suddenly realizing something. “Wait... tomorrow’s the seventeenth?”

“Yes, it is.”

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