Page 20 of The House Beyond the Dunes

LANE

Saturday, December 30, 2023

8:00 a.m.

I know this sounds boring, Lane. But this night is important to me and you.

My name jumps off the page as I stare at the note in the margin. The script is bold, darker than the diary entry, as if made later with a different pen. The room suddenly feels too small for me. Have the walls shifted in five feet?

Surprised? Yep, I know your name, Lane.

I try to picture her, but she’s said precious little about herself, as if who she is doesn’t matter to this story. I imagine her standing behind the bar, brow furrowed, a tumbler half-full of scotch as she writes.

I drop the sheets and stare around my apartment, half expecting to find someone watching me. Why am I upset? Is it seeing my name scrawled in a stranger’s handwriting? If this is a play engineered by Detective Becker, it’s odd.

I walk to the window, open it, and suck in a cold blast of air. I was honest with Detective Becker when I told him I don’t know Stevie Palmer. But clearly, she knows me. I’ve run a lot of group sessions over the last few years. She might have sat in one of my circle sessions, met me at a mental health awareness expo, or passed me at the university. There have been so many people in these groups over the years. So many lost souls.

The words on the page trace my spine like cold fingers.Yep, I know your name, Lane.

Being known by a stranger is unsettling. I have a social media account, but I never post. The account is strictly for checking up on gals who want to join my group. Social media posts are as good as, maybe better than, any personality test.

A local paper did a piece on the homeless a few months ago. I declined to be interviewed but got caught up in a group picture the reporter took of my fellow grad students. Even if Stevie saw the article, she wouldn’t have seen my name attached to the piece.

I reread Stevie’s journal entry three more times. There’s nothing about her that really stands out. Stevie and Nikki seem to have their own issues. Stevie, or whoever gave me these pages, seems to want me to know that.

Suddenly, my hip throbs, or maybe I finally notice the discomfort. I walk to the refrigerator and reach past a few random beers for a cola.

Cracking the top, I take a liberal drink. My skin is chilled, but my insides feel hot, as if there’s a fire burning in my belly. The cool liquid does little to tamp down the flames.

I grab a second cola, even as the beer calls, open my laptop, and search Stevie Palmer. After clicking through several pages, no female matching her approximate description appears in the search engine. There’s a guy in Scotland going by that name. He’s a folk singer. Not a very likely candidate.

Next, I dig into social media.

A dozen Stevie Palmers pop up on several platforms. I scan each profile, searching for anything in their pictures or entries that matches the words I’ve read. Of all the Stevie Palmers I find, none live in the areas of Nags Head, North Carolina, or Norfolk, Virginia. Many have full-time jobs. None mention part-time bartending. Nothing jumps out at me, but it’s impossible to tell who these people really are. Even looking past the exaggerated half truths and embellishments, I don’t see anyone that fits my Stevie Palmer.

I look for Nikki Kane, the girl both Stevie and Detective Becker mentioned. There are dozens of Nikki Kanes, but none fit Detective Becker’s description. But hadn’t he also said he thought both women were using fake identities? There’s a good chance they both appear on other pages, but without their real names it’ll be impossible for me to find them.

Next, I search Joey’s Bar in Nags Head. There’s a web page filled with pictures taken in the bar last summer. I scan the images for anyone who could look like Stevie or Nikki but see no one. The current post announces that the bar closes after New Year’s until March 1.

Kyle did have social media. I know because I cyberstalked him when he started flirting in the coffee shop. There are photos of him sailing, playing tennis, driving his Range Rover, and volunteering at a church Thanksgiving meal giveaway. Even if he’d been exaggerating a little, he’d looked good from the start.

I open his page, wondering if anyone has posted something about his death. Nothing. His last post is a picture of him at a holiday crisis hotline. There are no traces of us.

A wider search lands me on the page of an online newspaper that covers the Outer Banks. I find a small article mentioning that Dr.Kyle Iverson of Norfolk, Virginia, expired yesterday in a tragic home accident. There are no details about how he died, but there’s a mention of an unknown woman having been airlifted to a Norfolk hospital.

Great. Just what I need.

Before I can do anything, I need to get my phone, meds, and purse from the beach cottage. The phone is not only brand new, but I use it for everything. It’s my traveling office.

I also want to scroll through the images on my phone and look again at the pictures I took as Kyle and I drove up the beach. There are also a few selfies of us. In the last, Kyle was hugging me close, grinning, clearly happy to mug for the camera.

My Jeep has four-wheel drive, but riding off the main road onto the beach is a daunting idea. It’s colder today, and Kyle said weather was moving in this weekend. That means that the surf will be rough, and there’ll be few if any people on the beach or in the rental cottages. If I get stuck without my cell, I’m screwed.

Chills roll up my arms. I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to see the place where we landed, where Kyle died. Will his blood still be there? I remember so much blood.

But not having my cell and wallet is like walking around naked. And if I don’t get those meds, I’ll be sleepwalking all over town. I can get in quickly, get my things, and be back on the road in minutes. If I hurry, this can all be over for me by this evening.

I crush the empty soda can, consider another, and then reject going for a third. Over caffeination never makes the world turn more smoothly. I walk into my bathroom, turn on the shower, strip, and step into the water. It’ll be a long while before I wash away yesterday.

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