Page 117 of The House Beyond the Dunes

“I saw a chair, and there was a rope dangling from the armrest. When I went back the second time, I got inside the house.” He doesn’t ask how. I was trespassing, and whatever I saw likely won’t be usable in court. “The rope was gone, and the chair was put back at the dining table. I went upstairs and found a four-poster bed. There were worn marks around the wood spindles, like someone had been tied to them and was trying to get free. I took pictures of the bed.”

“You broke into his house.” He speaks the words more to himself, as if he’s playing out the ramifications and how they’d affect an investigation. “Can you text me the pictures?”

“Sure. I’ll send them.” Stevie’s texts are proof my cell signal is strong enough.

“Does anyone know you went to the woodland house?” he asks.

“Devon saw me the first time. And a guy named Earl. He’s a backwoods kind of guy.”

Another whispered oath drifts over the line. “Earl Mason.”

“How do you know him?”

“I’ve done a deep dive into Iverson’s life. I missed the woodland house because it wasn’t listed in Kyle Iverson’s name.”

“How did you do all this since Friday?”

“We’ll talk about that later. Right now, you should leave that house, Lane.”

“Detective Becker, one other thing. I lied.”

He doesn’t speak.

“You asked me if I know Stevie Palmer? I don’t. But she’s been sending me her diary entries.”

“You can show them to me when I see you.” He doesn’t sound surprised, but he’s a cop and people lie to him all the time. “Get out of the house, Lane.”

“That was the plan, but my front tire is flat, and the sky just opened up. Even if I could change the tire, the beach is impassable now.”

“I’ll come get you.”

“In the rain on a beach.” Lightning cracks across the sky. “It’ll take you hours from the mainland.”

“You’re assuming I’m on the mainland.”

“Where are you?”

“Close enough.”

A part of me doesn’t want a rescue. Until this moment, I’ve always rescued myself. “Okay.”

“Text me those pictures, Lane. Hang tight.”

I end the call and send him five pictures. The texts appear to go, but seconds later I receive anUndeliverablemessage. I try again, this time sending one image at a time. I don’t get a bounce message, but I’m not sure if they’ve made it. Time will tell. Lightning cracks outside.

I move to the kitchen and set up coffee to brew. My hands are shaking, and I spill coffee grounds on the counter. It takes three ties to lock the grounds holder into the coffee maker. Finally, the machine begins to hiss. I lay my head on the counter and wait as the cup slowly fills. When the machine goes silent, I splash creamer into the cup and drink. My hip is throbbing, and it’s uncomfortable to stand. I shift my stance, hoping to find a pain-free spot. I don’t.

The caffeine blunts the fatigue, so I cradle the coffee in my hands and drain the contents before making a second cup. Moving to the downstairs shower, I finish the second cup. I turn on the hot water, strip down, and step under the stream. The heat hits my body, sending a molten jolt. I tip my face upward, shuddering as the chill leaves my bones.

The water helps some, but I’m still in pain. I step out of the shower and reach for a towel. When I’m dry, I dig aspirin from my overnight bag and swallow three. I need more coffee. I need to keep moving. Keep the hip lubricated.

I dress in an oversize nightshirt, which doesn’t require anything of my hip. Barefoot, I move steadily to the kitchen. I set up another cup to brew.

“You’re limping. Are you in pain?”

The sound of Devon’s voice startles me, and I whip around. She’s standing on the other side of the kitchen island. Her hair and clothes are soaked and dripping water on the marble floor. She looks more like a ghost than a living, breathing person. “Devon.”

She smiles. “Everything all right, Lane?”

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