Page 108 of The House Beyond the Dunes

Criminals return to the scene of the crime.

A wind blows under the house, sending a chill around me. The hairs on the back of my neck rise.

I close the door and move around to the tailgate. My gaze is drawn to a large toolbox mounted behind the cab. I open the tailgate, haul myself up into the bed, and walk carefully to the box. I pull, and when the top begins to lift, I pause and brace, half fearing and half hoping I’ve found Stevie or Nikki. I raise the top. The box is empty, save for a handful of rusted nails. Staring into the confined space makes my chest tighten, and suddenly I must close it. Quickly, I cross the bed, ease down, and back away from the truck, not sure why it unsettles me so badly.

I move toward the staircase on the back side of the house. I test the railing. It’s wobbly, but not as badly as the front set. The stairs creak under my feet as I climb toward the deck. When I reach the top landing, the wood cracks and fractures. I pull my foot back quickly and shift my weight to a section that appears more stable.

There’s no door on this side of the house, but there’s a window. Looking left and right, I don’t see any houses within eyeshot of this portion of the house. I cross to the window and push up. It’s locked.

I ball up my fist, curling Reece’s gloves around my fingers. Raising my arm, I hit the glass with the meaty side of my fist. The glass cracks. I flex my fingers. The strike hurts, but my hand is intact.

A second strike shatters the brittle glass. Some of the shards fall inward into the house, but several remain dangling, ready to slice through my jacket and skin. Carefully, I take the first sharp sliver in hand and wiggle it back and forth until it breaks free. I set it aside and turn my attention to the next one. Ten minutes later, I’ve cleared an opening wide enough for me to climb through.

I hike up my leg and lift it over the sill. I push up and settle the first foot inside, then lift my second leg. As I pull myself into the house, my left calf catches on a small shard that cuts into my jeans. I try to lift it, but it snags. I struggle to maintain my balance, but it’s off just enough, and I topple. I fall hard onto the floor. The glass shard cuts my jeans and scratches my skin.

I’ve landed on my right side, but my hip is pulsing as I lie on the floor. For several seconds I breathe in and out, praying I’ve not done any new damage. Finally, the pain eases, I catch my breath, and I sit up.

I’ve landed in the cottage’s kitchen. It’s dark, grim, and the countertop is covered in grime and spiderwebs. The avocado-green stove is coated in grease, the sink is full of unwashed dishes crusted with dried food, and the refrigerator sports a calendar from 2009. I open the refrigerator and release a fetid smell. Gagging, I slam the door.

“Damn it.” I press my arm against my nose and turn away.

I move out of the kitchen into the central room with the vaulted ceiling. Light seeps in from holes in the ceiling and falls on a wooden floor covered in a faded red industrial-grade rug. I move past the dining table and notice immediately the chair with arms has been replaced at the table. The rope that was dangling from the arm hours ago is gone.

Unease slides along my nerves. Devon knew I was here, and I wouldn’t be shocked to learn she’s been behind me and cleaned up anything out of place. I scan the cargo furniture, windows covered in threadbare curtains, and a brick fireplace covered in years’ worth of soot.

On the first floor there are two doors. Bracing, I open the first and find a small bathroom. I cross to a moldy plastic shower curtain and open it. It’s filthy but clear. The next door leads to a bedroom outfitted with twin beds. The bedding has been stripped, leaving behind sagging, stained mattresses.

I turn toward the stairs and slowly climb, gripping the banister. The stairs creak.

There are two more bedrooms on the top floor. The first has a double bed, again stripped and bare. On the dresser is a collection of pictures tucked in a plastic discount frame. The first features young boys who appear to be about ten and eleven. I recognize Kyle’s wide, charming grin. He’s thin, and his brown hair skims a striped T-shirt. The boy next to him must be his brother. Is it Jeb or Zeke? This boy is shorter, and he’s not grinning as he stares blankly at the camera.

There’s another picture featuring a twenty-plus-year-old bearded Kyle with his arms around two guys about his age. Like Kyle, they all have thick, dark beards. The guy on the left must be Reece. His face is fuller, and his cheekbones less etched, but there’s no missing those forlorn eyes.

While Kyle and Reece are grinning, the third guy isn’t. I lift the picture and study his face. Is this Jeb? All three of them fit the description Stevie gave of her attackers. Which, of course, wouldn’t mean anything in a court of law. Lots of young men drive pickups and have beards.

Still, something dark roils inside me, and from the maelstrom an old fear rises and clogs my throat. I grieve for Stevie, Nikki, and the other young girl Jeb kidnapped.

The more I study Kyle’s smile, the less jovial it appears. Instead of warmth, his eyes reflect a feral edge.

According to Reece, Kyle returned home after his sophomore year. That’s the same year Jeb was arrested and went to prison. Was this that summer?

My gaze remains transfixed on the trio as I tug my phone from my back pocket and center the camera lens on the image. I snap several pictures before turning toward the bed.

The bed is covered in rumpled, graying sheets. They don’t look clean, but they’re also not old or threadbare. I move closer to the bed and catch the scent of urine. My stomach tumbles, but I don’t dare draw in a deep breath to calm my nerves.

My gaze rises to the headboard. There are no ropes, but each post is ringed with worn marks on the left and right. Absently, I run my fingers over the smooth skin of my left wrist.

Stevie had keyed in on Kyle because Nikki had last been seen with him, which led to dark suspicions about her own past. And then Stevie had also vanished.

All those bits of information certainly aren’t proof of any misdeeds. Maybe Kyle slept with Nikki. Maybe he even paid for her time, but thatdidn’t mean he killed her or Stevie. But if Stevie is right, Kyle took her here as a teen and Nikki fourteen years later.

As I stare at the scored marks on the bedposts, frost chills my blood. I glance toward the footposts and see similar marks on each. How hard and long would a woman have to struggle to make these marks?

I run my fingers over the rough edges of the wood. Time would have discolored the scarred wood, but these marks are light. Stevie and Nikki had been in this area six months ago.

My hands tremble when I lower them to the bedsheets and touch the rough polyester fabric. I glance toward the ceiling and see faded gold star stickers. I count the stars. Seventeen. How many times had the person tied to this bed counted those stars?

Sweat pools at the base of my spine.

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