The Hollows(30)

A little while later I looked out the front and saw David and Connie on their deck. There was a man with them.

Restless and thinking this might be a good chance to talk to them and get some more information for my article, I went over to say hello.

‘Tom!’ David said, effusive as always. ‘You want a beer?’

‘That would be great.’

He handed me one, the bottle cold and wet.

‘This is Neal,’ he said, nodding at the man sitting in the chair opposite Connie. He was, I guessed, in his fifties, with a bald head and the eye bags of a chronic insomniac. He rested a beer bottle on his paunch. Neal. Where had I heard that name recently?

‘Hey,’ I said. ‘Are you another fan of Connie’s podcast?’

David, who was now standing behind Neal, made a throat-cutting gesture at me.

‘I’m not a big fan of true crime,’ said Neal.

I was confused. Who was this guy?

Neal stood and said, ‘I guess I’d better be going. See you tomorrow, David?’

‘Sure.’ David and Neal shook hands and David said, ‘It was so good to meet you.’

Neal went down the steps and walked off in the direction of the lake. I waited till he was definitely out of earshot and said, ‘Who is that?’

‘You’ll see,’ said Connie.

‘Wait. He’s something to do with your big surprise?’

She gave me an enigmatic smile. This was interesting. If Neal was connected to the murders . . .

And that’s when I remembered. Neal was the name of Sally Fredericks’ husband.

‘Don’t tell me that’s Neal Fredericks,’ I said.

Connie and David both looked stunned. ‘How did you know that?’ David asked.

‘I read Jake Robineaux’s book.’

‘You did?’

‘Yeah.’ I didn’t want to tell them about my article yet, because I wasn’t sure how they would react. They might think I was treading on their patch and clam up. ‘I was intrigued after talking to you and visiting the clearing. But what’s Sally Fredericks’ husband doing here? I’d have thought it would be the last place he’d want to come.’

David and Connie exchanged a glance. They seemed annoyed that I’d figured out who Neal was.

‘You’ll find out more tomorrow night,’ David said.

I nodded, thinking I wasn’t going to wait that long. I wanted to talk to Neal Fredericks. He could be a pivotal part of my article. Speaking of which . . .

‘Can I ask you something? In Jake’s book he said a lot of strange stuff happened at the campground in the days before the murders. Do you think it might have been connected?’

‘You really need to listen to our podcast,’ Connie said. ‘I guess you haven’t been able to get online, but it’s something we cover at length. Jake didn’t make the link explicitly in his book and the police didn’t either, apparently.’

‘You think it is connected, though?’

‘It has to be,’ said David. ‘We actually tracked down some campers from the weeks before Jake was here and the same thing happened to them. Hearing weird shit at night. Random items going missing. So it had to be someone local, and no one was ever caught or came forward to admit to it. We think it was Everett, and that’s where he first spotted Sally and Eric.’

‘And decided to target them,’ Connie added. ‘We think he was probably stalking them. Watching them. Maybe he overheard them making plans to sneak into the woods.’

‘But why would he steal things? Pee in their sleeping bags?’

‘Because he was a freaking nutjob,’ David said with a laugh.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Surely there has to have been more to it than that.’

‘I agree,’ said Connie, shooting David a look that made him fall quiet. ‘To me it always seemed like . . . like he was marking his territory.’

All three of us turned our heads towards the woods, and a sensation of dread trickled down my spine. A shadow moved in the trees. Shifting light. Wind stirring branches. But it was easy to imagine something else at work. Something alive and ancient that had lived among these trees since they were saplings.

Everett’s territory?

Or the territory of something he worshipped?





Chapter 15


Frankie and Ryan sat beside each other on the swings. The scratches on her back from the tree branches were sore and her ant bites itched. Neither of those things really mattered, though. Not now.

At some point on the walk home her phone had pinged. She must have walked through a pocket of cell signal. She hadn’t checked it until her dad had gone to reception to get the first aid stuff.

She showed Ryan now. It was another message received through Instagram. An image of a girl falling from a horse, accompanied by a message, blocky white letters on a crimson background: Maybe next time you’ll break ur neck. That was followed by several crying-with-laughter emojis.

‘The message arrived about ten minutes after I’d fallen.’

Ryan looked at the message, then at Frankie, then back at the screen. ‘Did you see anyone?’

‘No. But whoever it was must have been there. Following me.’

‘Following you? Are you sure?’