Free The Whispering Hollows by Lisa Unger Page A

were glamouring the city government, promising big money, an influx of wealthy city dwellers looking for their country escape. Already some of the old families were selling off parcels of their long-held land to people who wanted to build neighborhoods with names like The Hollows Heights and Harrogate Manors. Trees were being cut away, land cleared. New restaurants were opening in the town center. There was a trendy new coffee place called the Java Stop offering lattes and cappuccinos—for four dollars! There was even a yoga studio, of all things. Development, it was the big trend in The Hollows. It would not be stopped.
    Joy Martin of The Hollows Historical Society was the first to speak, but she barely had a voice at the meeting. She put forth her concerns about maintaining the historical buildings and sites, like the dilapidated graveyards, the old schoolhouse, the various abandoned structures out in The Hollows Wood.
    â€œThese are the places that remind us of who we are and where we came from. The Hollows is rich in history,” she said. “Development is inevitable, but it doesn’t have to be at the expense of the essence and character of our town.”
    Her comments were met with a lackluster smattering of applause. She took her seat with a frown.
    â€œPreserving the past is all well and good,” said the speaker who stood up next. Eloise recognized him as an owner of one of the local contractor firms. What was his name? Nick something . It didn’t come to her right away. “But we have to look toward the future, too. Otherwise, we go the way of the towns all around us: bankrupt, deserted, all the young people leaving as fast as they can. If you don’t build the future, it bulldozes you.”
    Nick’s comment, however, roused an enthusiastic roar of support. Eloise wouldn’t have thought he had it in him. She knew him as a quiet man, awkward with a bad temper. She wouldn’t have pegged him as a rabble-rouser. Perhaps the promise of big contracts had allowed him to tap into his inner eloquence.
    As he went on extolling the virtues of the new businesses moving into the town center, the big houses going up on formerly undeveloped land and so on, Eloise saw The Burning Girl in the corner of the room. The girl pointed a narrow, accusing finger. Eloise stared at him a moment, and she wasn’t getting anything off of him—no malice, no secret shame, no hidden perversions. He was just a man who wanted to build things, like a boy with a box of blocks.
    It took Eloise a moment to realize that The Burning Girl was pointing at Nick’s wife, Miriam, who sat beside him, holding an infant. Miriam, a former reporter for The Hollows Gazette , was now a stay-at-home mom. Ella, her infant daughter, was not quite three months. Miriam had interviewed Eloise once. The young woman had been respectful and open-minded. She was one of those Agatha called “the seekers,” people who believed that there was something more to life than what they could see before them. They just weren’t sure what it was.
    Miriam had written a thoughtful and flattering feature about Eloise, which got some national pickup and eventually led to television exposure. Of course, Eloise was no publicity hound. In fact, she actively avoided the spotlight. But Agatha had urged her to do appearances and interviews. The more familiar we are to people, Agatha had said, the easier it is to do our jobs, the less abuse we take.
    Tonight, Miriam looked sunken with exhaustion: big, dark circles under her eyes, a kind of grayness to her skin color. She was nothing like the bubbly, light-hearted girl who had interviewed Eloise. How long ago was it now? Five years? Six? Miriam was so thin that Eloise could see her collarbone, the hard knobs in her wrists. She had a kind of blank stare. Depression. Eloise could feel it, that sucking darkness within, that cave inside where you can dwell. She knew it all too well.
    The