I open my window more and reach out into the cool air. Driving this close to the water is exciting. “This day is perfect.”
Kyle turns toward me. His dark eyes spark as if he’s devouring a delicious morsel. My skin warms knowing soon after we arrive at his cottage, we’ll be naked and in his bed.
“The weather doesn’t get any better than this,” he says. “It won’t last. Heavy rains tomorrow afternoon, but we’ll be inside.”
Four or five miles up the beach, there’s a house on stilts that stands almost dead center on the beach. The hurricane fencing along the dunes is broken like snapped twigs in several sections.
Kyle angles his car close to the water and around the house. He keeps driving, and when I glance in the rearview mirror, there’s nothing but empty beach for as far as I can see. We drive for another ten or fifteen minutes. There’s no traffic on the beach, and the cottages beyond the barren dunes are dark.
In the distance, I see a fence that stretches from the water, along the beach and over the dunes. According to my research, this fence marks the Virginia and North Carolina border. It’s designed to keep the horses from wandering north.
When it seems that we are running out of beach, Kyle takes a sharp left and arrows the Range Rover directly toward a channel cutting through the dunes. My heartbeat ramps up in a fight-or-flight leap, and I hold my breath. The front wheel hits a rut, and the vehicle tosses me against the door. Finally, we break through to the other side of the dunes and roll onto hard-packed sand.
The breath trapped in my lungs leaks out. “Feels like we’re leaving the world behind.”
Kyle looks at me and grins. “Sure you aren’t afraid?”
I scoff. “What’s there to be afraid of?”
He arches a brow. “Can’t fool me, Lane. I know you too well.”
I learned at a young age to guard my thoughts. Safer not to put all the cards on the table. I’ve revealed more to Kyle than anyone else, but my jokers and aces remain tucked up my sleeve. Ingrained habits don’t die easily.
“Maybe I’m a little nervous,” I concede. “This is a first for me.”
His hand shifts from the steering wheel to my thigh. He squeezes. “Don’t worry, baby. I got you.”
When he calls me baby, I feel protected. Ex–foster kids tend to like their security. How did I get so lucky with Kyle?
Lucky.
I don’t feel lucky now.
Mine has been a long, hard journey from foster care, but I’ve made it. My life is on track, I’m making a difference. And until yesterday at 1:00 p.m., I wasn’t alone anymore.
Rising, I move to the kitchen, pour cold coffee from the urn, and put it in the microwave. The bell dings, and the coffee is hot, but also bitter. Outside, the mailman’s keys rattle as he opens the mailboxes. I wait until his footsteps recede before I grab my extra key and move slowly down the stairs and out my front door. As I open my box, I glance up and notice a manila envelope resting on top of the boxes. It’s addressed to me. No return address. A mystery. I hate mysteries. I’m a Leo. We like having answers.
Back in my apartment, I curl up on the couch, cup in hand, and sip hot bitterness. I stare at the envelope.
A knock on the door startles me out of my melancholy. I’m in no mood to deal with the detective. A fist raps against the door again. Drawing in a breath, I open it and am surprised to see Shelly.
“Shelly. Everything all right?” I ask.
She nibbles her lip. “I should be asking you that.”
It’s not like her to hover or wonder how I’m doing. “I’m okay.”
“Checking in,” she says. “It’s not the kind of thing I do, and tomorrow I might forget about you altogether, but I’m remembering now.”
Her fleeting kindness is touching. “Thanks, Shelly.”
“That guy that was here last night . . . was he the one from the parking lot?”
No sense getting into a story she won’t remember tomorrow. “He’s gone, and that’s all that matters.”
She frowns. “He’s not the type that gives up.”
“How do you know that?” I ask.
Shelly’s eyes spark with wisdom and mischief. “I’ve been around enough to know when a man won’t go away. I’m guessing he’s not a stalker, but he’s trouble.”
“He’s a cop.”
Her eyes narrow. “Did you see his badge?”
“Yes. I asked.” When she looks more worried, I add, “He’s gone. He asked a few questions and was satisfied.”
“If you say so.”
“Are you doing okay?” The few times we’ve passed on the front porch, I’m the one reaching out.
“It’s going to be a good day. I have a painting in mind.”
“That’s great.” Shelly has lots of paintings in her head. She starts many of them, but few make it fully to the canvas. The one I’ve seen was stunning, which makes me wonder what other works of art are trapped inside her. “Want to come in for coffee?”
“No, thanks.” She rubs her palms over her jeans. “Just checking in.”
“Thanks, Shelly.”
“Our kind needs to stick together.”
Her expression is serious, touching. “Right. Thank you.”
Shelly chews her bottom lip again. “Anyone can get a badge, Lane. Anyone.”
“Why would you say that?”
“I don’t know. Just came to me.”
She has a point, and it’s not the least bit comforting. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Be careful, Lane. The world is full of crazy people.”
“Will do.”
Back in my apartment, I gulp coffee and reach for the manila envelope.
Threading my finger under the flap, I tear it open and remove a collection of handwritten notes. I don’t recognize the handwriting.
A yellow sticky is pasted on the top page. The thick, bold script reads, Don’t say I never gave you anything.
I thumb through the diary pages and read the first and last lines of the note attached to the journal. July 7, 2023. Stevie Palmer.
Stevie Palmer is the woman Detective Becker mentioned. The woman I swore I didn’t know. Is this a cop trick? Could Becker be testing me?
My gaze drops to the first line. I’ve written it all down because, well, life always goes sideways, and I’ve learned to hedge my bets. Trouble and I know each other well. Hell, we’re almost besties after all these years. But everything is changing. The ground under my feet is steady today, but that never lasts. Not sure how long I can hold it together, but I’ll fight the good fight while I can. No one gets out of here alive, right?
I thumb through the ten or so pages. It looks like Stevie Palmer’s journal. Reading another person’s diary, even if it’s a Detective Becker fakeout, feels like a terrible invasion of privacy. Stevie is none of my business. We don’t know each other, despite the subtext humming under Detective Becker’s words.
The handwriting is bold and creases the yellow paper, and that kind of intensity fits with Detective Becker. But the loops and swirls feel slightly feminine. I can’t tell if the writer is a man or woman.
Normally, I wouldn’t read anything so personal. I don’t want people poking in my life, so I extend the courtesy. I kept a diary as a teenager, but those filled spiral notebooks have long been lost.