But that’s not what I see when I come here. There’s another side to The Hollows. One a casual weekend visitor might not see. Bad things happen here—more than other places. A simple internet search will confirm that I’m not being dramatic. Bad things certainly happened to me here.
Something inside me is tight, my shoulders tense. I remind myself to breathe as I move out of the square and The Blue House Inn rises on my right. It’s a big Victorian house painted the color of the sky, turned charming B and B.
I park my car in its small lot and head inside. On summer weekends, I might have called ahead, knowing that it would be booked. But the season has passed, and a gray ceiling has settled over the town. The trees have shed their leaves, leaving black branches reaching into the sky. Besides, there’s always a room for me here. The proprietor and I have a long-standing relationship.
Darkness begins to fall around 3:30 p.m. in the winter months. Why does it always feel colder here? A damp chill makes me shiver as I take my luggage from the car.
But when I enter the lobby, a little bell announcing my arrival, the space is warm and cozy, with a fire crackling. Wingback chairs and an overstuffed couch, oil paintings of area landmarks on the wall, shelves and shelves of books. The head of a deer hangs over the hearth, eyes glassy and confused at the way of things. Why do people think it’s okay to do that, to hang the heads of dead animals on the wall?
The bespectacled young woman at the check-in desk looks up from her phone, surprised that anyone has come in at all. There’s a textbook and laptop beside her. When she puts her device down, I can see that she’s on Torch, sorting through the catalog of hopeful faces. I want to warn her off, but I hold my tongue. No one appreciates unsolicited advice. We all like to learn our lessons the hard way, don’t we?
“Is room 33 available?” I ask. It’s the largest room, one with a sitting area, a fireplace, a desk by the window.
She pushes up her glasses, offers a wry smile. “Every room is available.”
“I’ll need it for a few days at least.”
Tucking a strand of her long, auburn hair behind her ear, she tells me that there are no guests on the calendar, enters my name when I give it into the computer.
“You’ve been here before,” she says. “Is your information the same?”
I confirm that it is and after some keyboard clicking, she hands me a gold key.
“You can stay as long as you like,” she says. “Just let us know when you’re ready to check out.”
Thanking her, I shoulder my bag.
“Can I help?” she asks. She glances back at her phone, eager I’m sure to get back to the addictive activity of boy shopping.
“Thanks. I can manage.”
I walk through the sitting room and down the hallway, floorboards creaking, the scent of lilac in the air.
Inside the room, I set up my laptop, charge my phone, put my overnight bag in the closet. Flipping on the switch that lights the gas fireplace, I stare into the flames for a moment.
I put Dear Birdie and Wren Greenwood into their respective boxes.
I log into Tor, also known as The Onion Router, a way to log on to the dark web. A place where you go online when you don’t want to be followed.
Because there are two different internets. The one we all know and can’t live without. The shiny, frenetic mess of every person you’ve ever met, and all the information you need, and every single thing you want to buy. There are the bright, candy colors of social media sites, and coupon clearing houses, and places to store your million photos—and edit, and print, and make a mug! It’s a confessional. A world news hub. A cookbook. A radio. A television. Your portal to the universe where every question that has ever been asked, has also been answered with varying degrees of accuracy.
And then there’s the strange, ugly, netherworld of the dark web. That’s where I’ll find the person who can help me find you.
twenty-one
I follow Robin through the dark. She runs like a rabbit, impossibly agile and swift. Wait, I want to call after her. But I have no voice; terror and exertion have taken it. I have a stitch in my side; my throat is sandpaper. There are footfalls behind me, someone crashing through the forest—bigger, even clumsier than I, groaning. I stumble, fall and skin one knee, scramble to my feet again and keep running.
Up here.
There she is in the tree house. Her face is a tiny moon in the dark sky of the window.
Quick, before he sees you.
I scramble up, silent and fast. It’s minutes before he goes hulking past, roaring in pain and anger. A monster. A bear. The boogeyman. My father. He heaves and pitches, my name a wail in the night. But he never looks up, lurches away.