The Hollow Inside

by Brooke Lauren Davis

  When she finishes, she pulls open the back doors of the van and disappears inside. I wait, dirt turning to mud between my bare toes.

  When she climbs out, she pushes a pile of clothes into my arms. I dress quickly while she watches, her hands braced on her slender hips and an impatient scowl turning down the corners of her mouth. I fumble into a pair of dark jeans and a plain white shirt, my hands unsteady and my balance thrown off under the weight of her gaze.

  I can tell right away that these clothes are different. The jeans fit snug over my waist and hips, and the bottoms hit me right at the ankles, the way they’re supposed to. The shirt is soft and doesn’t hang shapelessly off my shoulders.

  “Where did you get these?”

  “A boutique the next town over. While you were sleeping.”

  Alarm flashes in my chest for just a second when I realize that I slept so hard, I didn’t even notice she left me here alone. But I’m still too distracted by the clothes to say anything about it.

  I’m used to wearing things bought for other people, too big in some places and too tight in others. This is the first time in a long time that I’ve worn something that fits. Something that’s mine.

  Mom steps back and studies me up and down, like I’m something she’s sketched and she wants to make sure all the lines are just right.

  I’m used to it being the two of us against everyone else, but all at once, I feel like I’m standing on one side of a wall of glass with my clean hair and new clothes, and she’s staring at me from the other with her dirt-and sweat-smeared face and a dress so old that threads dangle from the hem like cobwebs.

  I’ve got a job to do. And I have to do it alone.

  The weight of it settles on my shoulders while Mom goes back to the van to rummage some more. She returns with a camera in her hands.

  I stole the camera from a park bench a few months ago while the owner had her back turned. It’s a nice one, heavy when Mom slings the strap around my neck. I thought we might be able to pawn it, but Mom had another idea—it would be part of my costume instead. My new identity in Jasper Hollow.

  “What’s your name?” she asks me, moving around me in a slow circle while I stand still, back straight, eyes forward. Like a soldier.

  “Phoenix Ann Mallory.”

  We made up the middle and last names, but Mom told me to keep Phoenix. She taught me that the key to lying is sticking as close to the familiar as you can. And I’m about to tell a lot of lies.

  “And why are you in Jasper Hollow?”

  “I’m a sophomore from Ohio State studying photography, and I’m doing a summer project on rural landscapes.”

  A front that will let me move freely around town and watch everyone from behind the safety of a lens. To be Mom’s eyes and ears without letting anyone know she’s back. Because if they found out she was here—­

  She wouldn’t exactly be welcomed back with open arms. And there’s one person in particular who wouldn’t be happy to see her.

  The man who ruined her life.

  I’ve never actually laid eyes on him, but I’ve seen pictures. And the more she told me about him, the more he started to become tangled in all the other stories I heard growing up—he is the wolf at the door, the bandit who strikes in the night and takes everything, the dragon guarding the tower with molten breath that melts skin from bones. The fortune-teller told me that she sensed evil in Mom, but it was just an echo of everything this man has done to her—this man I’ve never met and has become my definition of evil.

  His power is in the way he draws people to him, Mom told me once. He’s handsome but approachable. He has a face people want to trust. A strong voice. And just the right words. Always just the right words. Once he’s got you, he could bury a knife in your gut, and you’d die telling everyone that it was your own fault.

  And now, it’s my job to get as close to him as I can.

  I’m here to learn about him. To watch him and everyone in town who knows him. I’ll tell people I’m staying in the motel we passed on the way into town, but instead, I’ll be sneaking off into the woods every night, feeding Mom the information she needs.

  To destroy everything he’s built.

  To make him suffer the way she suffered.

  To wreak complete havoc on his life so Mom can get back the one she lost.

  This is not about revenge, Mom has told me so many times, though I see she hungers for that, too—the chance to hurt him the way he hurt her. This is about exposing the truth.

  We’re going to do whatever it takes to scare him into confessing what he did to her.

  Of course, Mom tried to tell everyone herself, all those years ago. But no one believed her. There wasn’t any evidence. No witnesses. No proof. Nothing but her word against his—and everyone chose his. Which means the only way to clear Mom’s name is to get the truth from his own lips.

  And maybe it won’t take us long—maybe he’ll know what’s good for him and give quickly under the pressure we put on him.

  But I’ve got a feeling that he won’t.

  How far is this going to go? I asked Mom a few weeks ago, just as the plan was starting to come together. She’d been sitting in the back of the van, the doors thrown open to the fading, windswept day. Her sketchbook was propped on her knees, and she intermittently glanced at the view as she drew.

  As far as it needs to, she said.

  She held up a finger before I could respond, silencing me so she could concentrate on the last flourishes of her sketch. Frankly, I didn’t see anything there worth drawing. We were facing a run-down gas station, a plain bank building, and a strip mall where almost every storefront had faded CLOSING SALE signs taped to the windows. Concrete cracked into spiderweb patterns. Cigarette butts skidded in circles with each gust of wind. Even the air was stale as corpse breath.

  When she was finished, she showed me her sketchbook, and it turned out that she hadn’t been drawing the view at all—or rather, not the one in front of us. She had drawn what it would have looked like without the buildings and the parking lot. Just the grassy hill rising behind the bank, the trees that probably used to be in the same spot where the crumbling asphalt was now. Not the world as it was, but the way it should have been.

  It’s not up to us how far we take things, she said. It’s up to him. We’ll stop the moment he gives us what we want. If he lets things get out of hand . . . She shrugged. Then that’s his choice.

  She stared intently at her drawing, tracing her fingers over the unwavering lines she had made. His life is in his hands. Just as it always has been.

  Which I took to mean that whatever we end up doing to him, it’s his own damn fault.

  Chapter 6

  MOM EASES THE VAN out onto the road. My stomach feels like it’s turned to liquid, and I can feel it churn with every bump on our way back down Pearl Mountain. All I’ve seen so far is the woods, but now, it’s time for my first glimpse at the heart of the town. Jasper Hollow has always just been a story to me, but I’m about to experience the real thing.

  Mom told me it isn’t unlike the hundreds of other forgotten towns we’ve driven through—boarded-up windows and neglected homes. Defined by how poor it is, not to mention a steady rate of suicides and opioid overdoses. The only things Jasper Hollow has to hold on to are black-and-white photographs of how good it used to be, she said. Once the paper mill went under, anybody with promise moved on. I’ve watched more than one person drive away from this town for the last time, flipping the bird to the rearview mirror.

  I asked her why she cared so much about coming back to such an unremarkable place. Her mouth had responded in a strange way, with a smile, but a tight one, like she tasted something sour. Because it’s mine, she said.

  But when the van rounds the bend in the road, the Jasper Hollow she described to me isn’t what we find.

  She slams on the brakes. A car behind us almost rams right into our bumper, and the driver lays on his horn. But for a handful of seconds, Mom doesn’t
even seem to register the sound. She’s too busy staring.

  We’re facing a large roundabout with a massive tree at its center that Mom told me once was called Harriet’s Oak, named after the founder’s wife. But that’s the only detail from her stories that seems to ring true. Instead of a scattering of dying businesses, we’re surrounded by brightly painted shop fronts, all crammed together and clamoring for space like there’s no better place to be, their flower boxes overflowing with blooms, their doorways packed with customers.

  There are people everywhere—strolling along the uncracked sidewalks, following their dogs around ornate streetlights that gleam like new, lounging on freshly painted benches around the oak tree, drifting between shops and restaurants, sampling local wines and cheeses, browsing antiques, and cooing over hand-carved wooden statues and soy candles and custom jewelry.

  “Mom?” I say.

  The guy behind us is still blaring his horn. People are starting to look over. Our first day here, and we’re already drawing too much attention.

  “Mom,” I say again, grabbing her arm and shaking it.

  She’s leaning far over the steering wheel, staring through the dirty windshield.

  “We have to move,” I say. “We have to—”

  When she finally turns to me, I can’t find a single emotion on her face. It’s gone completely blank—a wall that I’ve never been able to find a door through.

  “Get out,” she says.

  “What?”

  The horn is starting to make my ears ring.

  “Now,” she says.

  There’s no time to argue. People are outright staring now. I fumble with the door handle, and as my feet hit the ground, before I can swing the door fully shut, the van rockets forward. The horn stops. Peace is restored, and everyone looks away.

  I stumble out of the road and onto the sidewalk as my mind catches up to what’s just happened.

  Dropping me off to look around was always part of the plan. I wasn’t expecting a pep talk or anything, but I thought she’d at least put the damn car in park before she shoved me headfirst into this new world.

  It was probably just the shock of this place not being what it used to be. It was probably just that she wanted some time to herself to process it. Probably.

  Introduce yourself. They like to chat. That was her only instruction for me, and I’m not going to get any more clarification now. I brace my hands on my hips, camera hanging awkwardly around my neck, and assess my options.

  My gaze is drawn to a storefront painted a soft, inviting blue. Cursive gold letters say Sugar House Bakery. As good a place to start as any—that’s what I tell myself. But if I’m being honest, it’s the smell that draws me in.

  When I open the door, a warm, sweet mixture of aromas tickles my nose and tugs me toward the display case before I’ve even had time to take note of my surroundings, my mission forgotten for the moment.

  I have to refrain from pressing my nose to the glass between me and the rows and rows of desserts arranged on glossy white plates—coffee cake, brownies, bread tied into knots and sparkling with cinnamon sugar, bars of swirled fudge and peanut butter, golden-brown croissants, cookies decorated in swirls of frosting, and cupcakes as large as my palm.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve been in a bakery. My only recent experiences with dessert have been the crushed boxes of Zebra Cakes that I’ve shoved down the front of my pants at grocery stores.

  “That one,” I say, tapping my finger to the glass like a little kid. With a pair of tongs, the boy behind the counter grabs the biggest cinnamon roll from the display, which is dripping cream.

  And then I see the price, mocking me in swirly handwriting on a little chalkboard plaque.

  “Seven dollars?”

  I’ve been in this town less than ten minutes, and I’ve already gotten careless—revealed that I’m different from everyone else here because I can’t just hand over a ten-dollar bill without guilt or regret or fear.

  I shake my head and tell the boy behind the counter, “Never mind. I’ll just have a coffee.”

  I’m sure no one is really paying attention to me, but my disappointment is palpable. I’m embarrassed. I try to soothe the burn in my cheeks by telling myself that it’ll probably be the best coffee I’ve ever had, compared to the ninety-nine-cent cups Mom and I sometimes get at gas stations.

  Just as the boy is about to put the cinnamon roll back in the display case, a voice from behind me says, “I’ve got it, Jake.”

  The guy who spoke offers me a shy smile before he steps around me and says, “I’ll take one of those, too. And a coffee.”

  I stare, gripping the edge of the counter. Hard.

  Because I recognize him. His name is Neil. And he’s the son of Ellis Bowman—the man I’m here to find.

  I’ve seen photos of Ellis before, and this boy’s resemblance to him is unmistakable. The low light of the bakery makes his golden hair glint like a crown. His curls hang loose, just past his ears. His chin is dimpled, his shoulders broad, his teeth pearly as he gives the boy behind the counter an easy smile and asks him about his plans for summer vacation.

  I suppose I shouldn’t be that surprised to run into him here. Both of his parents used to work in this bakery, according to Mom. And I know that if I’d grown up near a place that smelled this good, I’d probably be here every damn day. I should have been prepared for this possibility, but I wasn’t.

  I’m not supposed to recognize him, and I’m sure as hell not supposed to be staring, so I wipe the flustered look off my face while his back is still turned. I snap out of it too late to politely decline his offer to pay for my order, but by the time he turns back to me, I think I’ve managed to rearrange my features into something more appropriate. Though I can’t quite manage a smile.

  “Thank you,” I say. “You didn’t need to do that.”

  He gives me a lopsided smile. “Are you new around here?” he asks.

  I remember the camera and grab onto it like it’s a life preserver. “I’m a sophomore from Ohio State, and I’m doing a summer project on rural landscapes,” I say.

  I’m afraid I sound like a bad actor reading from a script. But he accepts my statement with a nod—he has no reason not to believe me.

  “Awesome,” he says. “Bucks had a decent season, didn’t they?”

  Bucks? I draw a complete blank.

  He laughs while I stutter for a response. “You know . . . ​the Ohio State Buckeyes? Not a football fan, are you?”

  “Not really,” I say, fighting to tamp down another blush warming my cheeks. I’m already messing this up. I shouldn’t be this nervous. But my hands are shaking when he hands me my coffee, the mug jittering on the saucer.

  I think he’s going to walk away from me and that’ll be the end of it, but as he moves toward a table, he says over his shoulder, “I’m headed to OSU in the fall myself. Haven’t decided what I’m studying yet, though.”

  He looks at me, and it takes a few beats for me to realize he wants me to follow him. I sit down across from Neil, and a man in a blue apron comes behind us, carrying out the cinnamon rolls. His name tag says Tim. He has silver hair and a neatly combed mustache, and he pats Neil on the back, glancing between us before he gives him a conspiratorial smile. “Who’s your friend?”

  “Well—” Neil tilts his head at me. “She’s a photography student from Ohio State—”

  Tim grips Neil by both shoulders now, practically shaking him. “Well, did you tell her that you’re on your way to being the next Buckeye football star?”

  Neil blushes and looks down at the table, but his smile gets even bigger. “It’s just a partial scholarship—”

  “A football scholarship to a Big Ten school!” Now Tim really is shaking him, so hard that the table rattles. “A D1 athlete hidden in little old Jasper Hollow.”

  Tim’s chest is puffed with pride. But Neil stammers in response, apparently too shy to handle this much praise—a notable difference from what
I’ve heard about his father.

  “So,” Tim says, taking mercy on Neil by turning his focus back to me. “Tell me more about this photography student from Ohio State.”

  Neil says, “She was actually just about to tell me her name.”

  Now it’s my turn to stammer. Up until yesterday, I made it my business to avoid attention. To slip around the edges, take what I needed, move on before anyone realized I’d been there at all. I survived by making sure no one knew I existed. But it’s time for a new strategy.

  And now, all eyes are on me.

  “Phoenix,” I say. “Phoenix Mallory.”

  “Phoenix,” Neil repeats, nodding, like he’s testing it out. “Well, Phoenix. Welcome to Jasper Hollow. My name is Neil, by the way.”

  Dammit. Because I already knew his name from what Mom told me, it didn’t occur to me that I should have asked.

  Tim shakes my hand, then leaves us to take care of other customers, and Neil and I are alone.

  I’ve never considered myself very lucky, and yet here I am. Less than five minutes in this town and I’ve found a connection to Ellis. A wealth of the information I came here for, sitting right in front of me.

  But just because I’ve gotten a windfall doesn’t mean I know what to do with it. How to capitalize on it. I can still say the wrong thing, make him suspicious, lose his trust, and this opportunity could quickly turn into a disaster.

  What I do have experience with is talking my way out of some tight corners. You get good at it, after you’re caught with stolen goods in your pockets a few times. Oh, I was just on my way to pay for this or, It’s a Christmas gift. I had to hide it from my Mom until I got to the checkout.

  I say, “This is such a beautiful town. Are you from here or just visiting?”

  “Lived here my whole life,” he says.

  I lean back in my chair with a wistful sigh. “It must have been heaven, waking up to these views every day.”

  “Never get tired of them,” Neil agrees.

  “I’m sure it’s really breathtaking from the houses up on the mountains. But it would also be nice to live closer to town. . . .”