Page 56 of Hollow

No. I can’t think about that right now. I need to focus on getting back to the estate without being seen.

I start walking, keeping close to the wall, each step taking me further into darkness. My Jeep is parked two blocks away, down an even darker alley off Harbor Street. Seemed like a great idea when I was trying to be sneaky. Now? Not so much.

The island is quiet at this hour. Most of the local businesses close by nine, leaving only The Vault and a few dive bars for nightlife. The fog has thickened since I arrived, turning streetlights into hazy orbs that barely cut through the mist.

Something scrapes behind me—a footstep, maybe, or a can rolling across pavement.

I freeze. Listen. Nothing.

Only my imagination. Too many horror movies as a teenager.

I keep walking, faster now. My breath comes a little shorter, a familiar tightness building in my chest. Great timing for my lungs to remind me they’re garbage.

The sound comes again. Definitely footsteps this time, then silence when I stop.

“Hello?” I call out. “Is someone there?”

No response. Just the distant crash of waves against the harbor wall and my own breathing.

I should run, but running isn’t really an option with my crappy lungs. Instead, I walk as quickly as I can, pulse hammering in my ears.

There it is again—the quiet shuffle of footsteps on pavement, closer now.

Oh god. What if it’s Viktor? What if he followed me from The Vault, figured out I had something to do with Liam?

A movement reflects in a darkened shop window. A shadow, taller than mine, keeping pace about twenty feet behind me.

I dig in my pocket for my phone. Dead. Of course it’s dead.

The alley where I parked is just ahead. I pick up speed despite the burn in my lungs, ignoring the way spots dance at the edges of my vision from lack of oxygen.

I turn the corner, plunging into darkness so complete I have to feel my way along the wall. The alley smells like rotting fish and seawater. My Jeep is parked at the far end, a barely visible shape in the gloom.

What was I thinking, parking here? This is literally how every bad horror movie starts.

Keys. Where are my keys? I pat my pocketsfrantically, eventually encountering the hard metal outline in my right pocket. I pull them out with shaking hands.

A scrape of boot on concrete echoes through the alley. He’s here. Whoever’s following me has turned the corner.

My trembling hands refuse to cooperate. The keys slip from my fingers, hitting the wet pavement with a metallic clatter that seems impossibly loud.

“Shit!” I whisper, dropping to my knees to feel around for them.

My fingers scrabble across rough concrete, finding nothing but puddles and cigarette butts. The footsteps are getting closer.

There! My hand closes around the keys just as a reflection catches my eye.

A face in my car window, not my own. A man’s face, features blurred by darkness and fog, but unmistakably watching me.

I open my mouth to scream, but my lungs seize up completely, cutting off the sound before it can escape. I stumble backward, keys clutched in my fist like a pathetic weapon.

“Briar.”

The voice is so familiar it takes a second to process through my panic.

“Damiano?”

He steps forward, becoming solid in the darkness. “What the hell are you doing out here alone?”

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