The Hollower by Mary Sangiovanni

real, physical force of its own. Erik took it to be a laugh.
    “Please,” he whispered. “Please go away.”
    “Erik?” The screen door to the backyard slammed shut and Erik jumped, whirling around. Casey smiled at him and waved.
    He didn’t wave back. For a moment, the world threatened to slip away beneath the growing kaleidoscopic patterns before his eyes. He took several deep breaths and looked down at his hands. They were shaking and he shoved them in his pockets. When he looked back at the bench, he saw it empty. The figure was gone.
    Casey’s expression changed to one of concern when she saw his face. “Baby? Are you okay? What’s wrong?” Her hand, cool and smooth and dry, touched his cheek lightly. He flinched, and gave her a narrow-eyed once-over. She frowned.
    “What’s wrong, Erik?” It sounded more to him like an accusation than a question.
Are you high, Erik? Are you messing around with that stuff again?
    “Casey.” He searched her eyes for something familiar and undeniable to hold on to, but his vision blurred with tears. “Casey?”
    “What? What’s wrong?”
    He grabbed her hand suddenly and dragged her around to the front of the house. Her car was parked in the driveway. He touched the hood. Still warm.
    “Erik, what happened?”
    “I . . . I don’t know. I’m just glad you’re home.” He pulled her into a hug so tight she winced. “I love you, baby.”
    “I love you, too, Erik. Are you sure you’re okay?”
    “I am now.”
    Cheryl saw the Lakehaven police office as little more than a converted log cabin set a little ways off the main road. The white-walled interior of its reception area included a few important town notices hanging from corkboards, a framed picture of the department softball team, and a brass clock that ticked the minutes out with a lazy sound like air leaking from a tire. Even in the low hum of early morning under way, the place stood empty except for a handful of visitors crossing and uncrossing their legs along the pine benches. Cheryl approached the policeman at the front desk. After looking Cheryl up and down, he asked for her name and the type of crime she wished to report.
    “Breaking and entering,” Cheryl said between deep breaths, “and maybe threatening behavior, too.”
    The policeman raised an eyebrow at her. “Do you need medical attention?”
    “No, no, nothing like that, but . . .” Her voice trailed off.
    The man paused a moment, eyeing her in the space between her words, and then handed her a clipboard of papers to fill out. When Cheryl had written down as much as she could pick from her panic-jumbled thoughts, she handed the papers back to the policeman.
    “Please take a seat,” he said, more as a command than a request. “A detective will see you in a few minutes.”
    Ten said minutes later, the detective came out of the room behind the reception desk. She was the smallest woman Cheryl had ever seen, wiry, with a bony but not unpleasant face beneath a cloud of brown hair. She tilted her head to one side, nodded at Cheryl and asked, “You Cheryl Duffy?”
    “Yes, that’s me.”
    “Pleasure to meet you. I’m Detective DeMarco.” The detective’s grip was strong for such slender little hands, and she gave Cheryl a quick, confident shake. “Ms. Duffy, please follow me.” They passed through a doorway into a brightly lit room that sharply contrasted with the waiting area. Cutting a swath through ringing phones, noisy detainees, and a few other cops scribbling away at notepads, she led Cheryl to a desk that dwarfed her size. Skyscraper stacks of papers and files created a miniature city of open cases on her desk. Cheryl’s eyes surfed over the high-rises of file folders, papers, and Post-its. A few coffee rings and pens were scattered among the paperwork. The black name plaque across the front of the desk by the phone read in solid white lettering DET. ANITA DEMARCO .
    DeMarco motioned for Cheryl to sit in the wooden chair to the