Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
He’s a grieving brother.
A sharp prick of guilt slides under my skin. I glibly hounded him like he owes me answers about his hometown, when in reality I was prodding at the raw wound of his family’s tragedy.
I glance across the room. Mr. Baxter is hunched at the reference desk, fussing with the microfilm machine, humming to himself. For a moment I debate staying quiet, leaving this puzzle piece unspoken. But curiosity digs in its claws.
“Mr. Baxter?” My voice sounds thinner than I’d like.
He straightens, adjusts his spectacles, and shuffles over. “Yes, Miss Corbin?”
I slide the blotter across the table with one finger. “This girl—Lena Sterling. Is she related to Declan? The owner of House of Ink and Iron?”
Mr. Baxter’s genial expression falters, the lines around his mouth deepening. “Yes. His older sister. Bright girl.” His voice drops. “She was Miss Crowsbridge Hollow her senior year.” His gaze flicks toward the window, then back to me. “It was a hard time for everyone when Lena…disappeared.”
His explanation fills me with even more guilt. I can’t look away from the neat black letters of her name. Lena Sterling.
Why didn’t I dig up this information before I cornered Declan in his shop? I promised myself and my audience I’d never do grief tourism, that I respected boundaries. Yet I showed up here bumbling around with all the subtlety of a crow picking at a carcass.
Heat climbs my throat, shame curling in on itself. I was so eager to debunk the Hollow’s myths, to be the first to prove them false, that I forgot the people tied to them aren’t characters in a story. They’re flesh and blood.
I’ve never felt lower.
The shriek of unoiled hinges fills the library.
Heavy bootsteps echo over the old wood floors.
The pendant shifts against my chest, tugging slightly to the left.
My skin prickles with awareness. It’s him. It has to be.
“That’s enough digging for one morning, Emery.” Declan’s voice drops into the quiet like a stone in a calm lake.
I snap the blotter shut and flip over my notebook. Mr. Baxter side-eyes me but remains silent.
Declan stops behind me, close enough to raise the hair at the back of my neck. I stare straight ahead at the stacks of papers and ledgers, guilt threatening to crush me as I pretend I didn’t just stumble across his family’s tragedy.
The pendant warms, tugging harder. I curl my fingers around the iron until the teeth bite my palm. I can’t turn around. If I face him, I’ll crumble into a blubbering mess of apologies.
“It’s just research,” I whisper. “Completely safe.”
He rounds the table and drags the chair across from me out, dropping his heavy frame into the seat. He slides his hand across the table. His hand dwarfs mine, warm fingers grazing the back of my knuckles. The warmth of him bleeds through until I can’t tell if it’s his heat or the iron’s tug that has my pulse racing. “And what have you learned?”
I shake my head, unable to meet his eyes. Instead, I stare at the intricate ink at the base of his thumb, climbing up his arm. “Old reports. Gossip columns. Obituaries.” My laugh scrapes out, brittle as glass. “The usual small-town tragedies.”
With his free hand, he reaches for the pendant, his knuckles brushing against my skin. My breath stalls. I flick my gaze up to meet his.
“The usual?” He lifts an eyebrow. “Really?”
His dark gaze holds me in place. There’s no anger, only his usual quiet intensity, daring me to share the morbid details.
I swallow hard. “A lot of people have gone missing over the years,” I rasp.
He nods slowly. “And?”
I shift my gaze toward Mr. Baxter who’s standing rigid as a flagpole with a book in his hand, head tilted toward us, pretending not to listen to every word.
Declan follows my line of sight. “Put the books away.” He squeezes my hand once. “I’ll walk you out.” The command in his tone leaves no room for discussion.
Normally I’d bristle at being ordered around or toss out some creative version of fuck off. But all protests tangle in my throat. Shame, curiosity, and the strange, magnetic pull I have toward him snuffs out my usual fire.
Everything I’ve uncovered this morning blurs together as I stand. I clutch my notebook to my chest, legs unsteady, heat still crawling over my cheeks. He doesn’t even check if I’m following, just assumes I will.
And the worst part is—I follow. I can’t argue with him now. It’d feel too much like admitting I’ve lost control of the story.
CHAPTER NINE
Declan
Sunlight never graces the Hollow like it should. It doesn’t warm the air or scatter the fog. It hangs like a pale veil over the rooftops, useless against the chill that permeates the town.
Emery walks out of the library ahead of me, hugging her notebook to her chest like a shield. Shoulders stiff, jaw locked. Less reporter, more someone who uncovered a ghost in broad daylight.