Page 23 of Hollow

“I’m sorry I dragged you into this.”

I snort. “You didn’t drag me anywhere. I stepped in willingly. So did Damiano.”

My place comes into view as we round the last bend in the path. It’s not much—an old shipping container I bought for next to nothing and converted into a living space. Painted black with a corrugatedmetal roof I added to keep out the constant rain. Solar panels provide enough power for the basics. It’s perched right at the edge of the cliff, giving me the best view on the island and ensuring no neighbors.

“Home sweet home,” I say, shifting her weight to get my key from my pocket.

Inside, it’s sparse but clean. One big room with different areas for sleeping, eating, and living. The back wall is all windows, salvaged from a demolition site in Seattle, looking out over the cliff to the water below. A wood stove in the corner provides heat, and a small kitchenette with a propane stove occupies one end.

I set Briar down carefully on the couch—a massive leather thing I found abandoned by the side of the road and restored. She sinks into it, still shivering, clutching my jacket around her.

“First things first,” I say, moving to the wood stove. “We need to get you warm.”

I stack kindling and logs inside, lighting them with a long match. The fire catches quickly, crackling to life. Next, I fill a kettle and set it on the propane stove.

“I’m going to get you something clean to wear,” I tell her. “Those clothes need to be burned.”

She looks down at herself, as if just now noticing the blood that covers her. It’s everywhere—soaked through her clothes, crusted in her hair, dried in flaking patterns across her neck and jawline. Evenher fingernails are rimmed with dark crescents of Liam’s blood.

“Oh,” she says, the single syllable heavy with realization.

I’m not much better off. Carrying her has transferred a good portion of the blood to my clothes and skin. Rust-colored smears across my arms, damp patches on my shirt where her body pressed against mine.

“We both need to clean up,” I say, grabbing the cleanest things I can find from my dresser—a black thermal shirt and a pair of sweatpants with a drawstring she can tighten to fit her much smaller frame.

“Bathroom’s through there,” I say, pointing to the only interior door. “There should be towels and hot water if you want to clean up first. Probably best to rinse your hair, too.” I place the clothes on the small table in front of her. “Take your time. I’ll burn these clothes once you’re done.”

She stares at her red-stained hands, turning them over as if seeing them for the first time. “It’s... everywhere.”

“Arterial spray does that,” I say, then immediately regret my bluntness when she flinches. “Sorry. Just... yeah. Go get cleaned up.”

She stares at the clothes, then at me, still not fully present. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

When she doesn’t move, I crouch in front of her,maintaining enough distance not to crowd her. “Hey. Briar. You need to get cleaned up before Damiano gets here. We need to talk about what happens next, and you’ll think clearer once you’re warm and not covered in... that.”

She nods slowly, then stands, gathering the clothes against her chest. “How long do you think before he gets here?”

“Depends how many drunk assholes he has to kick out of your house.” I offer a small smile. “The hot water tank’s small, so don’t take too long.”

When she disappears into the bathroom, I let out a long breath. Fuck. What a night.

I move to the kitchenette, pulling out mugs and tea bags. The cheap herbal shit tastes like grass clippings, but it’s better than nothing. I add honey to both mugs, then a generous splash of whiskey. Medicinal purposes.

The bathroom door opens, and Briar emerges, swimming in my clothes. She’s washed the blood from her face and hands, but a few dried flecks remain in her hairline. Her wet hair hangs in dark ropes around her face. The bruises on her neck are darkening already, forming the distinct pattern of fingertips.

“Better?” I ask.

She nods, folding her arms across her chest.

“Tea’s almost ready. Sit by the fire.”

She does, perching on the edge of the couch nearest the wood stove. The light from theflames makes her look even more ghostly, highlighting the dark circles under her eyes and the pallor of her skin.

I bring the mugs over, handing her one. “Careful, it’s hot. And there’s whiskey in it.”

She accepts it with both hands, letting the warmth seep into her fingers. “Thanks.”

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