The Hollows(3)

‘You have to stay up as long as you can – acclimate to the time zone.’

‘Also, Frankie and I are vegetarian,’ I said.

‘No problem. We’ve got plenty of veggie food too.’ He strode away before I could protest, calling over his shoulder, ‘See you at seven, okay?’

I went back into my cabin. Frankie was still in her room, presumably unpacking. I was going to knock on her door but decided to leave it. Listening to David criticise his son’s ‘whining’ had reminded me I didn’t want to be that kind of dad. I couldn’t afford to be, not when Frankie and I lived thousands of miles apart.



Frankie accompanied me reluctantly, finally giving in because there was ‘nothing else to do’ and we didn’t have any food in the cabin yet.

‘I should have consulted you,’ I said. ‘About the lack of Wi-Fi, I mean. I’m sorry.’

She grunted, but I could see she was pleased.

David was out on the deck, wearing an apron and prodding at the barbecue with a pair of tongs. He greeted us loudly and enthusiastically, then yelled, ‘Hey, Connie!’

His wife came outside. She had long, dark hair and striking blue eyes, and walked with the aid of a stick.

‘I have arthritis,’ she said, seeing us both glance at the stick. ‘It’s a bitch. But at least it gives me an excuse to carry this deadly-ass weapon with me at all times.’

‘In case I’m a bad boy,’ said David, giving her an adoring look, which she returned. Some couples you can just tell: they love each other to pieces, no matter how long they’ve been together. ‘Hey, Tom, can you watch this while I grab some drinks?’

I took the tongs and attended to the food while he went inside, coming out a few minutes later dragging a cooler full of beer and wine.

With him was his teenage son. ‘This is Ryan,’ said David.

I caught the reaction on Frankie’s face. She had been standing a few yards from the cabin, scuffing the ground with her shoe, suffering TikTok withdrawal or whatever, but as soon as Ryan appeared she stopped slouching and did a double take.

I wasn’t surprised. Ryan was a good-looking boy. He had his mother’s dark hair and the kind of cheekbones that have launched pop careers. He looked like something out of one of the teen shows Frankie loved, like Riverdale. Or used to love. I wasn’t sure. Earlier, in the car, I had said something about Taylor Swift, who used to be Frankie’s idol, and she had rolled her eyes.

‘Hi,’ Frankie said, not quite looking at Ryan.

My instinct as a father was to step between them, to form a barrier, but I recognised immediately that this would be a mistake. Besides, maybe Frankie would stop sulking now.

‘You kids want Coke? Sprite? Dew?’ David had a great variety of sodas in his cooler.

Frankie and Ryan each took a Diet Coke, and Ryan said, in a confident and friendly tone, ‘Hey. I was gonna check out the lake.’

Frankie looked to me for permission and I reminded myself she wasn’t a child any more. I nodded.

‘A summer fling, huh?’ said David after the teens were out of earshot, and I couldn’t help but balk at his words. He laughed. ‘Hey, it’s cool. I don’t know what it’s like to have a daughter, but Ryan’s a good kid.’

‘He respects women,’ said Connie. ‘He’s definitely not a serial killer.’

They both laughed.

‘And Connie would know,’ said David. ‘She’s an expert.’

‘On teenagers?’

That made them laugh again. ‘No one is an expert when it comes to teenagers,’ David said. ‘Connie’s an expert on serial killers.’

‘Really?’

‘Yep. Ask her anything. Ted Bundy. Richard Ramirez. The Zodiac Killer.’ He pointed to the tattoo on his arm and I realised where I’d seen it before. It was the symbol the Zodiac Killer had sent to the police. ‘It’s a tribute to the victims. A reminder he was never caught.’ That seemed a little odd to me, but before I had a chance to react, David went on: ‘You guys have had some seriously messed-up serial killers across the pond. Like that doctor guy. Harold Shipman. And that dude who kept all those bodies in his apartment. Dennis Nilsen.’

‘I read a great book about the Shropshire Viper too,’ said Connie. ‘Oh, and Lucy Newton. The Dark Angel. She was cool.’

Cool? I thought.

‘It’s not just serial killers,’ Connie continued, settling into a chair and pouring herself a glass of wine. ‘I’m just crazy about true crime.’

‘We both are,’ David said. ‘It’s why we’re here.’ He gestured at our surroundings.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked. I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like the answer.

David and Connie both looked confused. ‘Wait, you didn’t know about this place? Where did you see it advertised?’

‘I don’t know. I put “cabins Maine” into Google and it was one of the first results.’

Connie almost spat her wine out. ‘Really? That’s hilarious. Most people here this weekend saw it on The Snuff Guide.’

‘The Snuff Guide? What on earth’s that?’

‘It’s a dark tourism website,’ David said. ‘You really didn’t know this? You don’t know what happened here?’