by Steve Frech
As he steps in, he tries to open it only enough to get through so that I won’t see into the hallway, but of course I do, and there they are. Two of them, wearing suits and serious demeanors.
“Good morning, Jacob,” Dr Jensen says, closing the door behind him. “How are we feeling, today?”
I want to ask, ‘Who’s we?’ but instead give him the truth. “A little better.”
My voice is slightly stronger than yesterday, and the pain is a little duller.
“Good, good,” he says and hesitates. “Listen, there are some men here to see you. They’re detectives. They’d like to ask you some questions. I said I would ask you if you’re feeling up to it. You can say ‘no’ and I’ll send them away. I personally don’t think it’s best for you, right now, but it’s your call. Do you want to talk to them?”
“It’s okay,” I answer.
I don’t need any more time. I’ve made my decision. Let’s get this show on the road.
Dr Jensen lightly shakes his head in resignation before turning and going back to the door. He opens it as I attempt to sit up a little more in the bed, which hurts like hell.
The two guys step into the room. One’s got a tight crew cut and carries himself in a way that screams ex-military. The other is balding and heavyset with bloodshot eyes. They take up positions at the foot of the bed and wait for Dr Jensen to leave.
“Five minutes,” Dr Jensen says, sternly. “That’s all you get, for now.” He then turns to me. “If there’s any trouble, simply ring for the nurse,” he says with a nod to the button mounted to the railing of the bed. He gives one last look to the detectives as he walks past them and steps into the hall.
The detectives wait until the door closes and then look at me. I can’t tell if they suspect or pity me. Ex-military guy is a stone and even Old Bleary Eyes is inscrutable.
“Mr Reese,” Ex-military begins. “I’m Detective McDougall. This is Detective Simmons.” Old Bleary Eyes dips his chin. “We know that this has been an incredible ordeal for you, but we’d like to ask you some questions. Is that okay with you?”
I lightly nod.
Detective McDougall takes out a notepad and a pen. He clicks the end, which brings out the point, and poises it over the paper. “First off, can you tell us what happened?”
I glance back and forth between them.
I look at the tip of Detective McDougall’s expectant pen, waiting for my answer.
I take a breath … and begin.
Acknowledgements
From the moment I was sitting on the bed of a wonderful Airbnb in Portland, Maine, on my birthday with the guestbook in my hand, and had an idea, to this moment of you holding it in your hands, a lot of blood, sweat, tears, coffee, and ink went into Dark Hollows. Sure, it’s my name on the cover, but it doesn’t happen without the help of a lot of people.
Thank you, Mom, Dad, Amanda, and Stephanie, for all your love and support and asking for more pages. Thank you, Victoria Skurnick at the Levine Greenberg Rostan Literary Agency for your hard work. Thank you, Deborah Griffith, for catching all those phrases and word slips. Thank you, Olivia Hernandez, for helping me find my way through the woods.
And finally, a huge thanks to Abigail Fenton and the entire team at HQ and HarperCollins. You saw Dark Hollows for what it was and your passion, support, and guidance were everything a debut author could dream of. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
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