Page 73 of Hollow

“Fine,” I concede. “I’ll call him today, if it makes you feel better about going to your sister.”

Mrs. Fletcher’s shoulders relax slightly. “Thank you. That would ease my mind, and I could be back in a week or two, depending on how she’s doing.”

“Take as long as you need,” I tell her, meaning it. “I’m not going anywhere.”

We’re interrupted by the grumble of a lawnmower starting up outside. I glance out the window and see Damiano pushing the old mower across the side lawn. He’s wearing a faded black tank top that clings to his frame, and his arms flex with each movement, the tattoos visible from even this distance, dark patterns against his tanned skin.

My mouth goes dry, and I force myself to look away.

“That boy works too hard,” Mrs. Fletcher says, following my gaze. “Always here at dawn, leaves after dark. Never takes a day off.”

I make a noncommittal sound, trying not tothink about exactly what kind of “work” Damiano was doing last night.

“I’ve left meals prepared in the freezer,” Mrs. Fletcher continues, evidently oblivious to my wandering thoughts. “Just heat them up when you’re hungry. And there’s a list of emergency numbers on the refrigerator.”

“Perfect,” I say, dragging my attention back to her. “I promise not to burn the house down or throw any more wild parties.”

She gives me a stern look, but there’s fondness beneath it. “See that you don’t. Your father would have my head.”

My father again. Always looming over everything.

“I’ll call him right now.” I pull out my phone. “Get it over with.”

Mrs. Fletcher nods approvingly and busies herself with cleaning the kitchen while I step outside onto the terrace, phone in hand. I hesitate for a moment before dialing, watching Damiano work his way methodically across the lawn. When he meets my gaze, even from that distance, I feel it like a physical touch.

My father answers on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Hi, Dad.” I lean against the stone balustrade, keeping my eyes on Damiano. “Mrs. Fletcher said you’ve been asking about me.”

“Oh.” There’s a rustling of papers in thebackground. Always working. “Yes, well. Haven’t heard much from you lately.”

I can hear the distraction in his voice. “I’ve been resting. That was the whole point of sending me here, right?”

He clears his throat. “Of course. I just... worry. Your condition?—”

“Is stable,” I cut him off, watching as Damiano turns off the mower and moves toward the edge of the woods. What’s he doing? “The island air agrees with me. I’m feeling better.”

“Good, good.” He sounds distracted, like his mind is already moving on to his next meeting. I can picture him in his Seattle office, one eye on his computer screen. “Keep up with your medication regimen.”

“Always do,” I say dryly.

“Listen—” A pause as he presumably checks his calendar. “About the wedding plans...”

“How is Melissa?” I ask, more to be polite than out of any real interest in my father’s fiancée.

“She’s fine. Busy with preparations.” He clears his throat again. “The date is set for September. I was hoping you might want to be involved. If you’re feeling up to it.”

Involved in my father’s wedding to a woman barely older than me? Hard pass.

“We’ll see how I’m feeling closer to the date,” I hedge. “I’m taking things one day at a time right now.”

Damiano has disappeared into the treeline, a flash of movement catching my eye as he slips between the pines. Curiosity prickles at me.

“Right, of course.” Dad sounds relieved I haven’t committed. “Just... keep me posted on how you’re doing. More than just those two-word texts.”

“Sure,” I promise, distracted by Damiano’s disappearance. “Dad, I should go. Mrs. Fletcher’s calling me for breakfast.”

“Take care of yourself.”

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