Page 107 of The House Beyond the Dunes

“I don’t know. My friend Nikki has vanished, and it’s stirred up a lot of the old fears. When those two guys took me, I thought I’d vanish, and no one would ever bother to look for me.”

His expression remains calm, placid. “Are you looking for Nikki because no one looked for you?”

I smile and point at him. “That PhD wasn’t a waste.”

He doesn’t speak, but his gaze lingers on me. He’s searching, but for what, I don’t know. “I’ve asked around about Nikki, but there’s no sign of her.” I shake my head. “I’m clearly dealing with shit that I thought I’d put in the past forever. Now because of Nikki it’s all front and center.”

He studies me a long beat. “I can’t help you with your friend, but I might be able to help you. Is this a one-time session, or are you coming back, Stevie?”

I lean back in my seat, fingering the packet of cigarettes. “Do you want me back?”

“Therapy has to be voluntary, or it really doesn’t work. But I would like to get to know you better. Hear what you have to say.”

“Therapy.” A half smile tugs my lips. “Sure, I’ll come back.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

LANE

Monday, January 1, 2024

1:30 p.m.

That lone strand of rope teases me. Is it trying to tell me something about Stevie or Nikki? Did Kyle take both women? Did Kyle see Nikki on the day his brother died and decide to recreate the good old days? Was he doing that when he met me in the coffee shop?

When I walk out onto the beach, I notice a black four-wheel-drive truck parked on the sand. It faces the ocean. The plates are from North Carolina, and the driver is sitting in a foldable chair facing the ocean. A fishing rod rises out of a holder burrowed deep in the sand. The air on the beach feels ten to fifteen degrees colder than on the other side of the dunes.

I jam my hands in my pockets, and my fingers collide into the worn leather of Reece’s gloves crumpled on the bottom. As isolated as this area feels, it’s clear someone is always watching.

Moving down the beach, I know there’s another turnoff about a hundred feet ahead. Once over the dunes, it should be a straight shot down the dirt road to the woodland house.

I’m not worried about getting into the old house. I’ve been locked out of my apartment enough over the years to find my way through a jimmied back door or window. I’ll get into the house. It’s just a matter of how.

I walk a hundred yards up the beach before crossing over the dunes. I’m well beyond all of Kyle’s houses. I hustle up a different side street, hoping I’m moving parallel to the right one. The woodland house should be twenty yards up ahead on the left. When I cross the side street, I look toward the thick woods to my left.

As I step into the land smothered in live oak trees bent by years of wind, my foot immediately sinks into the soft soil. There’s a sucking sound when I pull out my foot. I keep moving, trying to keep my footfalls quick and light. The brush and bramble grab the fabric of my coat, forcing me to constantly pull free. Several times fabric rips. I’m glad I have Reece’s work gloves. They’re sturdy enough to clamp down on the bramble.

Movement through the woods is slow going, and once or twice I lose track of where I am. Several times I swear I hear footsteps behind me, and I stop, expecting to see Devon, Earl, or Reece. Heart hammering, I stand still, waiting for the silence. There’s the whinny of a horse and the pawing of ground. I’ll take a herd of charging wild horses over Earl or Devon.

I move forward. I hope I’m walking in a straight line, but I fear my trajectory is angled, and I’m simply moving parallel to the road.

“Stevie, I don’t know why the hell you picked me,” I whisper. “But this is feeling really crazy right about now.”

I push through the next thicket and discover I’ve reached the dirt road. Breathless, I look left and right. I see the woodland house to my left. I’ve overshot it. But not by much.

Aware that Devon doesn’t miss much, I stick to the woods as I move closer to the house. When I reach the overgrown yard, I walk toward a set of stairs on the back side of the house.

As I get ready to climb, I glance under the house. I move toward the truck covered in the tarp. I raise the brittle plastic and a small animal scrambles under the vehicle. I drop the tarp and step back. My heart kicks into high gear.

Drawing in a deep breath, I grab hold of the tarp’s slippery corner and pull hard. At first the tarp resists, as if someone on the other end is pulling against me. A racoon scrambles out from under the truck and runs toward the brush around the house. I jump back, my breathing fast, as adrenaline rushes my body. Wincing, I take hold of the tarp again and pull it the rest of the way off.

The truck is a faded black Ford. The tires aren’t flat, but low, and the windows are covered in caked-on dirt. I clean off a section of the driver’s-side window and raise my phone light. The brown seats are torn and mended with duct tape in a couple of places. There’s a nest on the passenger-side floor, and there are several crushed old beer cans on the front seat. A faint scent of rot drifts around the vehicle, and I wonder what animal crawled in a vent, got stuck, and died.

There’s an unsettling familiarity about the truck. I think about Nikki trying to escape Pete’s truck behind Joey’s Bar. Stevie was able to save her that night. But there was no one to save Stevie when she was thrown in the back of a truck. No one noticed she’d vanished then, but she has my full attention now.

I try the truck’s door handle. It’s unlocked. Hinges groan as I open the door. More foul smells assail me.

Stevie had been driven to a house like this one. In Stevie’s mind, when she saw the picture in Kyle’s office, she believed he was not only Nikki’s attacker but hers.

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