Dark Hollows. Steve Frech

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СКАЧАТЬ to meet you. This is Murphy,” I say, with a flick of the wrist in Murphy’s direction.

      Tiller nods at him. “Hi, Murphy.”

      “So,” I begin. “What do you think of the place?”

      “Well, as you know, this is just a preliminary scouting trip. I’m pretty low on the totem pole, and have to report back my initial findings, but I have to tell you, I love it—the décor, the themes, the menu. It’s really impressive and your associate … ummm …”

      “Sandy.”

      “Yes. Sandy. She and I went over a lot of the finances before you got here and, I don’t mean to sound rude, but you could be making so much more with this place.”

      “Well, I hope that’s where you come in.”

      He smiles. “Good answer.” He consults his laptop. “Now, I believe I have everything I need to set up a meeting with Helen Trifauni. She’s one of our brand developers. She’s tough, but fair, and I think she’ll really go for this place.”

      “Perfect.”

      “Great. How does next week sound?”

      “Fine with me, but it’s getting really close to Halloween, and it might be a little chaotic here in The Hollows. We tend to go all out. There’s the parade and everyone dresses up. It’s kind of a madhouse.”

      “That’s what we want. It will add to the charm of Groundworks.”

      “Then next week is perfect.”

      He looks out the window to the green, where preliminary decorations are starting to take shape for the celebration. “Everyone dresses up?”

      “Yeah. There’s a costume contest that some of us business owners take pretty seriously.”

      “How seriously?”

      “That seriously,” I say, pointing to the trophy sitting on a shelf on the wall near the door.

      He laughs. “There’s a trophy?”

      I nod.

      “And last year, you won?”

      “And the year before that and the year before that and the year before that,” I answer.

      “What’s your costume for this year?”

      I good-naturedly shake my head. “Everyone keeps their costume a secret.”

      It’s true. None of us who enter the competition want to tip our hand. My costume was delivered over a month ago. It’s sitting on a shelf in my hall closet. Tiller’s question reminds me to talk to the post office, because the box was partially open when it was delivered.

      “Will you win?” Tiller asks.

      “Yep.”

      “Love it. Well then, we’re on.”

      We shake hands, again.

      “If this works out,” he says, sitting back and gazing out the window, “there could be a Groundworks Coffee in dozens of towns in two years, and in five years, who knows?” He takes a sideways glance at me. “And that could potentially mean a couple million for you.”

      “I can live with that.”

      Tiller and I trade some more polite conversation. He starts talking about working Murphy into the logo. I tell him it’s all great, and of course, acting as his agent, Murphy would love to do it.

      By the time we wrap up, it’s dark, and it’s close to closing time. We shake hands one last time, and agree to set up a meeting next week, based on Mrs Trifauni’s schedule.

      Once he’s gone, I check in with the staff, and Murphy and I head towards the door.

      “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.

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