Page 14 of The House Beyond the Dunes

“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.

Tracing the handwriting with my fingertip, I think about the missing women. Beyond Detective Becker, is anyone else asking about them?

If I’d gotten a better vibe from Detective Becker, I might call and give this to him.

But I don’t have a good feeling about him. He gets under my skin. Makes me nervous, even a little anxious.

Drawing in a breath, I reread the date. Stevie wrote this note six months ago, right before she vanished.

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 start reading the diary.

Chapter Four

---