Chapter One
Rebecca Earl adjusted her grip on the steering wheel as the faded "Welcome to Hollow's Edge" sign appeared through the trees. The letters, once painted gold, were chipped and dulled by time, yet someone had strung fresh flowers around its posts. The cheerful gesture made the small town feel almost too perfect like something out of an old postcard. Among her late grandmother's belongings, Rebecca found an old letter referencing Hollow's Edge.She pressed her lips together, trying to quiet the knot in her chest. This was it. Her chance to start over.
The divorce papers were still sitting in the glovebox, tucked beneath the registration. Bryan had signed them with the same detached efficiency he'd used to balance their checkbook, as if ending a decade of marriage were no more significant than paying a bill. She had given him her youth, her loyalty, her trust. And in return? Silence. Betrayal whispered behind closed doors. Nights spent alone in a house that no longer felt like hers.
No more.
Rebecca's reflection in the rearview mirror looked older than she felt. Thirty-eight shouldn't feel like an ending. It should feel like the beginning of something untamed. Hollow's Edge wasn't just a new town. It was her reset button.
The streets narrowed as she drove deeper in. Rows of Victorian houses stood in neat symmetry, their shutters painted cheerful blues and greens. The townsfolk were out, waving politely as she passed. Men tipped their hats, women smiled with warmth, and even children paused their play to nod in greeting. It was the kind of hospitality she'd once thought existed only in stories.
And yet, something about it set her teeth on edge.
The smiles were too rehearsed, too eager. Every pair of eyes seemed to linger a second too long on her car, as if measuring her, memorizing her. When she slowed at a crosswalk, an older woman met her gaze with a grin that never touched her eyes. Rebecca's stomach fluttered with unease.The people she passed on the sidewalks smiled and waved like they'd been waiting for her all along. It should have been charming. Instead, it unsettled her.
By the time she pulled up in front of the rental house a Robbin's egg blue, two-story home with wide windows and a wrap around porch an ivy-clad colonial with white trim. The house sat at the edge of town, close to the bookstore and cafe.
The landlord Taylor Boyd had been surprisingly eager to give her the keys, insisting she was "just what Hollow's Edge needed." She hadn't asked what he meant by that, but the words followed her now as she climbed the porch steps.
Rebecca pulled her suitcase up the wide porch steps, the wood groaning beneath her feet. Taylor had left the key under the mat, just as promised, and the lock turned with a heavy click that echoed through the stillness.
The air here was different. Cooler, sharper. She drew in a breath and swore she caught a faint metallic tang on her tongue.
"Fresh start," she whispered to herself as she slid the key into her pocket.
The house welcomed her with a groan of old wood, the kind of sound that felt more alive than structural. She carried her first box inside, setting it on the hardwood floor. The silence settled around her, but it wasn't empty it was watchful.
Rebecca shivered.
The house opened before her like a memory she didn't own. High ceilings with carved moldings, tall windows draped in faded lace, and the faint scent of lilacs drifting as if someone had placed fresh flowers only yesterday.
It was furnished every room alive with the ghost of someone's taste. A velvet sofa faced the fireplace, its cushions plump and waiting. Lace doilies rested on polished side tables. A row of china plates gleamed behind glass in the dining room cabinet.
Rebecca trailed her fingers over the mantel where dust should have gathered, but hadn't. "Untouched," she whispered, though it felt more like kept.
She carried her bag upstairs, the floorboards creaking beneath her. The bedroom she chose had a four-poster bed already made, quilts folded neatly at the foot. A vanity held a silver brush and hand mirror, their surfaces dulled but intact, as though waiting for someone to return. After setting her things down, Rebecca wandered into the parlor again and found herself standing before a tall bookshelf. Wedged between novels and hymnals was a leather-bound album. She pulled it free, her breath catching as she opened the cover.
Photographs. Black-and-white portraits of stern-faced men in suits, women in long skirts, children with solemn eyes. She flipped a page, and the photos grew newer sepia fading into color, hairstyles and clothing inching toward the present. Closing the album, Rebecca pressed it to her chest, the silence of the house wrapping around her. The air seemed to hum with presence, not empty but watchful.
Rebecca clicked on the light, half-expecting dust or cobwebs, but instead the kitchen gleamed faintly, as though it had been waiting. The cabinets were painted a pale cream, their brass handles polished smooth by decades of use. A porcelain sink stretched beneath the window, its surface clean, though the faucet looked older than Rebecca herself.
On the counter sat a breadbox, still closed, and a spice rack lined with glass jars labeled in neat, curling script: Cloves, Cinnamon, Nutmeg. She lifted one, startled to find it still half-full, the powder dry but intact.
She opened the icebox, an antique relic, and found only emptiness yet no musty smell. No decay. Just cold metal and silence.
Rebecca shut the door gently, her skin prickling.
People clean out kitchens when they move. They don't leave behind spices, dishes stacked like someone planned to cook supper. Who walked away without looking back? What happened to the people in that photo album?
From across the street, leaning against the shadows of an oak tree, someone was watching. A tall figure, dressed in black, his pale face half-hidden beneath the brim of a hat. She blinked, startled. But when she looked again, the sidewalk was empty.
Rebecca's pulse quickened.
Hollow's Edge was beautiful. Too beautiful. And like all beautiful things, it seemed to be hiding something.