Page 26 of The Woman in the Hollow
I knew, though, that it was simply about wanting to take care of her, to wipe that blood off of her skin, to soften the shock and horror in her eyes.
Besides, Domenico might have been a mediocre manager, but he was a great fucking mobster. He would wait until the headlights were gone, then grab a flashlight, head into the woods, find the body, assess what happened, and call in the higher-ups to figure out our next moves.
By the time I made it back, I would not only have squashed the potential of Hazel calling the cops, but someone would have an idea of what we were dealing with.
Hazel had been stony silent the whole drive across town to her building, sitting there with her hands on her thighs, bloody palms up, almost looking like she was in deep meditation. It was shock, of course. And it was going to take a bit for her to wrap her head around everything to, hopefully, compartmentalize it so she could move on.
I led her into the elevator, then down the hall toward her apartment before using the key from her chain to unlock the front door.
Considering she’d only been in town for a couple of months, the whole space was surprisingly cozy, done in that shabby-chic style that was featured in all my mom and sister’s favorite old rom-coms: chintz patterns on the curtains and throw pillows, perfectly mismatched accent table lamps all over the place, trinkets on any tables, art on the walls. It made it effortlessly look like this place had been lived in and well-loved for decades, not mere weeks.
I moved around flicking on lights, then led her down the hallway to find the bathroom. Even in the small space, she managed to add personality with a blue and white striped linen shower curtain, wall art, and what looked like peel-and-stick tiles on the wall.
I sat her down on the toilet before rummaging around to find her very basic first aid kit. No packaged saline, no wound spray, no petroleum jelly—just bandages and antibiotic ointment. It would have to do.
I wet a washcloth, watered down some soap, then went to work on the scratch on her cheek before cleaning up her much dirtier hands.
She sat stoically, barely even flinching as I cleaned the blood and dirt out of her wounds before slathering on some antibiotic ointment and placing the bandages.
“Out of curiosity, when was your last tetanus booster?”
She slow-blinked at me for a moment. “Um… three months ago. I cut my foot open on a rusty nail inside my closet when I’d been cleaning it out to move.”
“You’re all set then. How about we make you some tea… hot chocolate? Whatever your chosen hot beverage is.”
“Tea sounds good. I can make—” she started, getting to her feet.
“Yourself comfortable while I make the tea? Yeah, you can do that.”
She shot me a soft smile at that, following me into her kitchen that also served as her dining space. She’d put a small metal bistro set in a buttery yellow under the only window in the room, giving her a view of a particularly colorful old oak tree in brilliant shades of yellow and red.
“Huh,” I said as I moved around, adding water to her electric kettle and turning it on.
“What?”
“You drink something like a gallon of coffee at work. But you don’t have a coffee machine at home?”
“Oh, well. As you can see, my kitchen is roughly the size of a large fish tank. So sacrifices had to be made. I opted to do pour-over coffee at home, so I can just have the electric kettle on the counter. It leaves me about eight inches of space to prepare food.”
“Yeah, this is a rough amount of workspace.”
“What’s your kitchen like?”
“Torn down to the studs and perpetually making the rest of the house dusty, despite the plastic door being up.”
“Redecorating?”
“Out of necessity. I had a leak we couldn’t find. Did so much tearing out that it just made sense to redo it all.”
“What’s the vision?”
“Rustic Italian kitchen. Warm stone or bricks, creamy colors, wood, maybe pops of green or copper. The kind of place that looks like where a family would gather.”
“Planning for the future?”
“Something like that.”
“Your mom must be loving it.”
