A large community notice board hung on the far wall by the drink fridge. On it the usual services were offered. But my gaze fixed on the number of missing person posters pinned up. Eleven of them. Some of the printed images were faded andcrumpled around the edges. But a couple looked new. It seemed a lot for a small town. In the police station where my dad worked, there were usually a few pinned to a large board in the waiting room at any given time. But the population of Ohio numbered in the millions. How was it possible for so many in a place this size to simply vanish?
The waitress interrupted my thoughts with a freshly brewed coffee. I watched people on the street amble by. A mother pushing a stroller. An old man with no hair and hunched shoulders. There was no constant drone of cars. No horde of people scurrying around each other like sheep. Here the quiet hummed a peaceful tune in my ears, even if beneath my skin the hollow ache of my heart screamed.
I swallowed against a dry throat, and got up, moving toward the fridge. A woman with dark skin and shiny, shoulder-length black hair glanced up as I walked past. She stopped chewing the fry she’d just popped into her mouth and stared at me like she’d seen my face on one of the noticeboards and was trying to work out if it was me. Maybe my hair was a disaster. The thick, wavy strands often looked like they were perched on the brink of some catastrophic event. I reached up to smooth them down. A boy was seated opposite her, probably her son. He looked to be in his late teens, and he swung his head to the side to follow her line of sight. I dropped my head and scurried forward, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, then I paused to study the board.
The images were lined up like a forensic board in a police investigation room—they only lacked the strings linking them. A few of the missing people had rewards offered. Some were rough looking. There were seven men and four girls. All in their twenties, I guessed, except one, who looked to be in his forties. He had tattoos up his neck and dark, soulless eyes. His picture looked like a mug shot.
There was one girl who caught my eye. Lucy Collins, a girl in her mid-twenties, with a severe fringe, and sleek brown hair pulled back into a low ponytail. She wore black-rimmed glasses and a white blouse. Lucy had disappeared last winter—she was last seen hiking up Rutherford’s estate. A reward of fifty thousand dollars was offered for information leading to her discovery. I felt a twinge of pity for her family. It had to be horrific, the not knowing. Wondering whether they were dead or alive, and if theywerealive, what horrors they may be enduring.
A flyer pinned in the corner of the board advertised a casual summer job at a bar called The Hollow, with a phone number cut into tearable tabs at the bottom. Three had already been tugged off—the job was probably already filled—but I tucked one into the pocket of my jeans anyway. If it was still available, a job would help distract me. Also, I loved the work, much to Tom’s chagrin. Not that it mattered now.Asshole.
I sat back down and tried to ignore the mother and son. They were engaged in a hushed argument. She kept looking up at me, like the argument was about me. I gave it no more thought as the waitress brought out the burger with a friendly smile and said, “Here ya go, love.”
Like the kid with ginger hair, I devoured the burger. By the time I’d finished it, I knew this was where I wanted to stay, for a while at least. A hotel by the week would cost too much. But a place like this would draw hikers to the ranges, or city folk looking to escape the rush. Someone might have a holiday home available for longer term rent.
“Um, hi.”
I glanced up to see the dark-skinned young man staring down at me. He shuffled on his feet and rubbed at his jeans pocket. He was about six feet tall with cropped hair, full lips, and dark eyes. He was cute in a boyish kind of way. His mother had sent him over; the argument must have been over hisprotestations. Mildly dismayed, and excessively annoyed, “fuck off” were two words which formed on the tip of my tongue. He looked as awkward as I felt. Maybe I’d add in a “please,” because manners were important.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” he asked.
“That obvious, huh?”
He cleared his throat. “I know everyone around my age here, and I haven’t seen you about. Are you visiting someone or . . .?”
“No. I’m just here for a break.” I took another sip of coffee and prayed he’d leave. His mother pretended not to watch. She stirred her teacup and looked casually at a point just over my shoulder. “Did your mother send you over?”
“That obvious, huh?” He mirrored my words with a smile that was more like a grimace. “I’m BJ.” He held out his hand.
The last thing I needed was an interested male in my life, especially one sent by his mother, but he seemed nice enough. I shook it. As soon as our hands touched, a static charge shot through my palm, traveling up my arm and buzzing through my veins.
“Amy.”
We both pulled our hands away quickly, ignoring the zap, which happened sometimes to everyone. Something to do with the fabrics of our clothing reacting.
He glanced at my ring, which I wore on my engagement finger for two reasons. The first was that it didn’t get knocked around as much on my left hand, and the second was for times like this. From my experience working in a bar, with liquid confidence roiling through the patrons’ veins, the ring served as a suitable deterrent—sometimes. Not enough times. Obviously.
The waitress came over and refilled my almost finished coffee mug without asking, so now I had a full cup to consume, and an awkward boy who, so far, hadn’t moved away.
“Do you mind?” he asked, indicating with his hand at the empty seat across from me.
I did mind. I was in no mood for chit-chat. I just wanted to sit alone, far removed from my old life, and pretend I didn’t miss Tom.
‘You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. I love you so much, when you’re not here it hurts . . .’
Tom’s words struck like a blade to heart. My hand went to my chest in useless attempt to ease the pain. Instead, I concentrated on the bitter taste of hot coffee burning down my throat. I should have gone to the bar and ordered a whiskey instead.
I waved a hand. “Sure.”
He sat down. His hands disappeared under the table, probably so I wouldn’t see them fidgeting. The faint scent of a sweet cologne drifted into my nose.
“How long are you staying for?”
I shrugged, cradling the warm cup in both hands. “I don’t know. I need to find somewhere to stay, and then I guess I’ll see.”
“John’s Realty should be able to help you if you want short term, or the local pub has apartments upstairs. It’s a few blocks that way.” He pointed down the road, heat quivered off the asphalt, writhing like invisible snakes.
“The Hollow?” I asked, taking another mouthful. I didn’t want to stay right in the middle of town and bars were notoriously noisy places.
