Dark Hollows

“Email me the day’s receipts,” I call over my shoulder to Sandy.

“Two stores!” she reminds me.

I stop and turn. “If this works out the way these people are planning, you can have more than that.”

She gets thoughtful, and nervously glances around. “Three stores?”

“Done.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep.” I turn back to the door. “Email me the reports.”

“Could I have gotten more?”

“You said three!”

I push open the door, and am greeted by a blast of cold air.

“Good night, boss!” I hear her call out.

“Good night!”

*

I’m buzzing the entire ride through the woods and farmland back to the house. I pull into the driveway, and see that there’s a fire in the fire pit outside the cottage. Rebecca is sitting in one of the chairs next to it. I park and hop out, followed by Murphy.

As I start walking towards her, I’m suddenly filled with an overwhelming sense of dread. Something’s off, but I can’t put my finger on it. I’m not sure if Murphy’s reading my body language or what, but even he seems cautious.

Rebecca is watching me as I approach.

I stop next to the fire pit, which is directly between us. The flickering light plays across her darkened features and red hair.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi.”

“You know the taillight on your truck is out?”

“Yeah. I’ve been meaning to fix it.”

“How did your business meeting go?”

“Good …”

Why am I so uncomfortable? I’ve come home to this scene many times. It’s always ended with pleasantries and, sometimes, inebriated conversation. Why does this feel so different?

“Is something wrong?” Rebecca asks.

I try to shake it off. “No. Sorry. The meeting gave me a lot to think about. That’s all.”

“Oh.”

“How do you like the cottage?”

“I love it. It’s perfect.”

“Good.”

That’s when I see it—the stick doll. She’s holding it in her hands. My mouth goes dry and my knees soften. The image in front of me is paralyzing—her smile, that red hair, her holding that doll.

For a split second, she’s someone she can’t possibly be.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“W—what?”

She notices that I’m looking at the doll. Her eyes drift down to it and back up to me. Maybe it’s just a trick of the dancing glow of the fire, but I catch something accusatory, something righteous in her gaze.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I was just admiring it inside, and I had it in my hands when I came out here to start the fire.”

“No. No reason to be sorry.”

It has to be a coincidence. It has to be.

This afternoon, I had wanted to talk to her, to get to know her. Now, I want to get away from her. I need to get away from her.

I finally find my voice. “Well, I’m going to head inside. If there’s anything you need, let me know.”

She cocks her head. “Are you sure you don’t want to hang out?”

She’s being deliberate. That smile. The doll. The red hair. All she needs is the scar. This can’t be a coincidence, can it?

“I—I’d love to,” I stammer. “But that business thing I was just at …”

She nods, sympathetically. “A lot on your mind?”

“Yeah.”

I feel like a wounded mouse staring up at a grinning cat.

“So, if you need anything …” I weakly offer.

“I’ll call you.”

“… great.”

I turn and begin walking away.