Page 24 of The House Beyond the Dunes

There’s a tremendous gash in his head, and his neck contorts at an odd angle. His arm is bent backward. The gold of his college ring winks in the sun. Beyond his neck and arm, his body looks whole, intact. I almost don’t believe Barry, and then my gaze settles on Kyle’s glassy stare. I reach for Kyle, but he’s now out of range. My voice is barely a whisper. “Kyle?”

“Lane, we need to focus on you,” the man says as he wraps a brace around my neck.

Panic claws its way through my body, dragging its old pal terror with it. Both surround me and squeeze my heart in a stranglehold.

I kneel on the clean floor at the base of the stairs and smooth my hand over the cool stone. Swallowing, I draw in a deep breath. As Devon said, all traces of blood have been removed from the floor andstairs. Even the grout is a pristine white. Also gone are the discarded bandages, rubber gloves, and paper wrappers littering the bloody floor.

My memories of the fall begin at the end, but I need a beginning. It’s as if a switch flipped. On and then off.

I look up the staircase toward the iron railing that bands the second-floor landing. My purse, phone, and pills are up there. I need to get my things, but as I look up each step, my head swims. The sensations of weightlessness, panic, and fear line up and land a punch. I’m not ready to climb the stairs.

A few extra minutes to collect myself won’t make a difference. Just a little time and I’ll settle, get my things, and leave.

Rising, I move to the kitchen, flipping on each light switch as I pass and then finding the switch that controls the shades. They all rise slowly, but the overcast sunlight that eases into the house does little to chase the gloom. Beyond windows that sparkled yesterday, dark, bloated clouds dangle over the ocean. A thick, cold mist shrouds the crashing ocean waves that roll almost up to the dunes. The weather and this house are both colluding against me.

“Not going anywhere until I’m ready.” The whispered declaration is as much for me as it is for the house and lingering spirits. I need reinforcing like a crumbling brick wall requires props.

I move past the stairs and take a long look at the main room. Its vaulted ceiling stretches up past the landing on the second floor to the pitched roof. All the furnishings and carpeting are white. Not the kind of place where you kick off your shoes and curl up with a book.

There’s a large modern painting mounted over a cold stone fireplace. It’s a black-and-white charcoal sketch of a naked woman. She’s facing away from the artist, her wrists crossed over her head. Her hands aren’t bound, but as I stare at the image, I get the feeling the artist wants me to believe the subject is trapped.

There are no personal pictures, and the accessories in the room are as blunt as the exterior. There’s a small gray statue of a naked womanleaning against a tree, and a small oil painting of a young woman’s face. She looks sad, lost.

The bloodred roses in a crystal vase on the coffee table are the one bright spot of color in the room. Yesterday, I was dazzled by the sun and barely glanced beyond the expensive furnishings. However, the longer I stare at the hard angles, the art choices, and the clouds shrouding the house, the more uneasy I become.

Beyond the living room, I find the laundry room, a bedroom, a home gym, and finally double doors leading to an office.

I enter the office and flip on the light. My gaze is drawn first to metal bookshelves that line the east wall. Every square inch of shelving is filled with books on psychology, the human brain, and anatomy.

Hanging on the light-gray walls are diplomas from Georgetown, Harvard, and Yale framed in sleek pewter. Several service awards sit on a credenza, along with a few pictures: Kyle with the Virginia governor, Kyle with law enforcement officers, and Kyle playing golf at a lush country club course.

The desk is made of teak with straight, balanced lines. There’s a gray handwoven carpet on top of beige wall-to-wall carpet, and in front of the desk are two chrome chairs with thick metal armrests. I sit behind the desk.

There’s a paper calendar to my right. It’s for the upcoming year, and the only notation in January is a neat pencil line drawn through Monday. Kyle expected to be at the beach with me into the New Year. That slim pencil line hits me hard. We all like to think that when death comes, we’ll see it first. Not so.

There’s no mention of me in his calendar. Kyle knew what the simple line meant, but no one else looking at it would.

I flip the pages and travel back through last year. He’s made notes in ink about contractors scheduled here at the house for the septic maintenance, roof repair, and window cleaning. There were several weekends also blocked off with a simple pencil line drawn from Friday to Sunday.No names. Funny that a man who was so exact would use pencil and skip specific notations for certain dates.

Everything in this space reminds me of Kyle. Stark, modern. Attractive but slightly unapproachable.

On the desk, there’s an amber paperweight that encases a yellow butterfly. I hold it up to the light, marveling that the creature was so perfect and beautiful at the time of its death.

I smooth my hands over the glistening desktop, which still smells faintly of lemon polish. I tug the front center drawer, but it’s locked, as are the side drawers. He surely kept a spare key somewhere. I run my hands along the underside of the desk. Nothing. Kyle’s life is none of my business, but that doesn’t temper my curiosity. I need to know more about the man who died inches from me.

Pivoting in the chair toward a closet behind the desk, I open the door. Inside are two sweaters dangling from wooden hangers. They’re both navy blue, and the seams are carefully arranged. I raise one sleeve to my nose and inhale. The power of scent is a potent memory trigger, and I’ve used it from time to time with some of the girls in my circle group. The soft scents of Kyle’s sandalwood aftershave invade me, and I can imagine him standing beside me.

I’m immediately transported back to a moment when Kyle is laughing at a comment I made about politics and then to another when he’s frowning after I refused his offer of financial assistance.

Blending with his fragrance are traces of fresh paint, lingering in the small space. I touch the wall and discover the paint is so tacky my fingerprint impression remains.

Who paints the walls of a closet in the wake of a terrible accident? Paint masks memories, hides a multitude of sins, and destroys forensic material.

I will the drywall to whisper its secrets. I wait, but these walls are as standoffish as the rest of the house.

The longer I linger in the space, a feeling of déjà vu tightens around me. I don’t recall any detail of the closet, but it feels familiar. Odd.

Claustrophobia constricts my chest, making breathing difficult. Suddenly, I’m fearful someone will shove me inside and lock the door. All I can imagine is oppressive darkness. I immediately step out and slam the door closed.

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