Page 6 of Hollow

My birthday.

Twenty-eight years of existence, and not a single soul on this island cares or knows. Not even my father remembered in his morning text. Pretty on-brand, honestly.

And pretty fucking sad.

“Everything all right, Miss Briar?”

I force a smile. “Perfect. I just realized I need to... make some plans.”

Plans. Weird how foreign that word feels after years of having doctors and my dad run my entire life. When was the last time I decided to do something fun? I can’t even remember the last time I celebrated anything.

A dangerous idea starts forming—ridiculous, impulsive, exactly what Maxwell Waters would disapprove of. Which makes it instantly appealing.

“Mrs. Fletcher, are those party boxes still in the basement? The stuff Mom used for her summer parties?”

She looks confused by my random question. “I think so. In the storage behind the wine cellar. Your father hasn’t touched them since?—”

“Since Mom died. Yeah, I know.” I stand up, suddenly pumped with energy. “I think I’ll have some people over tomorrow night. Nothing crazy.”

The lie comes out super easily. I don’t have a single friend on this island. I barely have friends anywhere, unless you count my physical therapist who sends me cat memes after sessions.

Her forehead creases with worry. “Miss Briar, are you sure that’s a good idea? With your health?—”

“My health is exactly why I need this.” I sound snippy, so I soften my tone. “I’ll keep it small. Just a few people.”

She doesn’t look convinced but nods reluctantly. “I’ll make sure the main rooms are prepared before I leave this evening, then.”

After breakfast, I grab my camera and head out, pretending I want to take photos of the grounds when I’m actually looking for Damiano. Disappointingly, the greenhouse is empty. No sign of the mysterious groundskeeper among his collection of plants.

I check the maze next, but there’s no sign of him there either. The guy clearly doesn’t stick to any kind of schedule. Figures, for someone who seems to appear out of thin air.

After an hour of wandering the grounds with nothing to show for it except a few decent photos of fog-covered trees, I head back to the house. Maybe I’ll have better luck finding him later. Right now, I’ve got a party to plan, and that means venturing into town to spread the word.

I shower and change into actual clothes instead of my usual loungewear—black jeans, a soft gray sweater, and boots. I even put on makeup—enough to not look like death warmed over. Looking in the mirror, I almost recognize the girl from before I got sick.

“Mrs. Fletcher,” I call, finding her dusting in the library. “I’m heading into town for a bit.”

Her eyebrows shoot up like I’ve announced I’m joining the circus. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? The walk is?—”

“I found the keys to the old Jeep in Dad’s desk. It still works, right?”

She nods reluctantly. “Mr. Waters has it serviced regularly, though it’s rarely used. The tank should be full.”

“Perfect.” I’m already heading toward the door, a strange excitement bubbling in my chest. Freedom. Even temporary, it tastes sweet.

The Jeep starts on the first try, the engine rumbling to life like an awakening beast. I haven’t driven in months. It’s another thing my father deemed “too taxing” for someone in my condition. The giddy thrill of rebellion propels me down the winding road toward town.

Heathens Hollow’s main street looks exactly like I remember—that practical strip of weathered buildings housing the grocery, pharmacy, hardwarestore, and a few bars. The fishing boats must be out for the day because the docks I pass are mostly empty, though people are unloading crates from the few vessels that remain. The air smells like salt and fish, so different from the antiseptic bubble I’ve been living in.

I park near what’s always been the center of activity and start walking, my camera around my neck. The locals—men in work clothes with weathered faces, women carrying supplies or hurrying between errands—give me curious glances. The Waters daughter, out among the commoners. What a spectacle.

As I pass Mooncrow Artifacts, the display of The Hunt masks in the window catches my eye. Bone-white stag skulls, modified with extra antler points and adorned with black feathers. They’ve put out the full display, which means the season must be approaching.

I’ve always been fascinated by The Hunt—the red lights appearing on porches across the island, the whistles in the night, the masked men slipping through the trees pursuing women in white. As kids, we’d dare each other to stay up and watch from our windows. We knew the basics: women put out red lights if they wanted to participate, men wore stag masks and hunted them down. The grown-ups never explained the rest, but we figured it out eventually. The chase, the capture, what happened after. Itwas like this secret island language everyone pretended we didn’t understand.

I keep walking until I reach The Vault. The old bank building with its blackened windows has been the island’s not-so-secret hotspot since it opened years ago. Dad freaked when he heard some “sex dungeon” had opened on “his” island. I remember thinking it sounded way more interesting than another summer of yacht parties with his boring business associates.

I try the door on a whim. Locked, obviously. It’s not even noon yet.

---