Page 74 of Hollow

“Yep.” I end the call before he can drag it out any longer.

I slip my phone into my pocket and head back inside, where Mrs. Fletcher is removing muffins from the oven.

“All good?” she asks, setting the hot tin on a cooling rack.

“All good,” I confirm. “Dad says hi.”

She doesn’t look convinced but nods anyway. “I’m going to pack a few things, then call my sister. I’ll leave after lunch if you’re sure you’ll be all right.”

“Positive,” I assure her.

Once she’s gone upstairs, I grab a muffin despite it being too hot to eat, wrap it in a napkin, and head back outside. The lawnmower sits abandoned near the edge of the property, but there’s no sign of Damiano.

I should leave it alone. Should go back inside, be the good little invalid my father and Mrs. Fletcherexpect me to be. But curiosity—or something deeper—pulls me toward the trees where I last saw him.

The forest feels different in daylight, less threatening than the night I ran from Liam. Still, I move cautiously, following a narrow trail winding between the pines. The ground is soft under my feet, covered in pine needles that muffle my steps.

I’m not sure what I’m looking for. Damiano could be anywhere on the sprawling property, but something tells me to keep going, deeper into the woods, away from the manicured gardens and carefully tended lawn.

The trees grow thicker, the light dimmer as the branches overhead create a natural canopy. I’m about to turn back when I hear it—the sound of a shovel striking earth.

My heart jumps into my throat. Instinctively, I duck behind a wide pine tree, peering around it toward the source of the sound.

In a small clearing ahead, Damiano stands in his tank top, his back to me, digging into the forest floor with methodical precision. Sweat darkens the fabric between his shoulder blades as he works. Beside him is a canvas bag, its contents hidden from my view.

My first panicked thought is of Liam—does Damiano want to move the body?

I step forward, a twig snapping beneath my foot, and Damiano whirls around, shovel raised like a weapon.

“Jesus, Briar,” he exhales when he recognizes me, lowering the shovel. “I could have hurt you.”

“What are you doing out here?” I ask, moving closer, eyes on the freshly turned earth.

He runs a hand through his hair, leaving a streak of dirt across his forehead. “Harvesting,” he says simply, nodding toward the bag. “Some of my more... specialized plants grow better away from the gardens. Where people don’t accidentally stumble across them.”

I step closer, peering into the half-dug hole. Sure enough, exposed roots of some kind of plant are visible in the soil. Nothing sinister, nothing dangerous, simply Damiano doing what he does best—tending to green, growing things.

“Sorry,” I say, embarrassed now. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just... saw you come into the woods and wondered where you were going.”

His expression softens, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Stalking me?” There’s no accusation in his tone, only a gentle teasing.

“Maybe,” I admit.

He sets down the shovel and closes the distance between us, hands coming to rest on my waist. “Last night was...” He seems at a loss for words.

“Yeah,” I agree. “It was.”

“No regrets?” He searches my face.

I shake my head. “None.”

Something in his eyes flickers with relief as I say this. “Good. Because I’d like to do it again. Allof it.”

Heat rushes through me at his words, at the memory of the three of us tangled together in the lighthouse, boundaries dissolving, something new and undefined taking shape.

“Mrs. Fletcher’s leaving today.” I step closer, pressing against him despite the dirt and sweat. “Going to take care of her sister in Anacortes.”

“Is she?” His eyebrows rise slightly, a slow smile spreading. “For how long?”

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