Page 31 of The House Beyond the Dunes

As I stand in the kitchen, the large painting featuring the naked woman with crossed wrists catches my attention. I see now her head is slightly dipped as if she’s submitting. I know there are no wrong or right choices about art. Personal taste is subjective. But all the choices we make for our home say something about us as individuals. I’ve neverbeen in Kyle’s apartment in Norfolk or his city office, but now I wonder what I’d find.

My stomach growls. I shift my attention to the refrigerator’s double doors. To my relief, it’s full not only with water but also luncheon meats, bread, apples, grapes, my favorite creamer, and canned seltzer.

“Bless you, Devon.” I reach for the packets of sliced ham and cheese as well as a sleeve of bread.

The bread is fresh, and the meat is sliced thin, just how I like it. I remember that Kyle said he called Devon and told her to order our favorites. I didn’t have many preferences, but he had plenty.

I dig a white plate out of the cabinet and pile the meat and cheese on the bread, then smear mustard over it. Grabbing a sharp knife from the block, I slide the blade through the sandwich. Immediately, I wash off the knife and replace it in the block because I still feel like an interloper. Crazy that I am so hungry, especially in this house. I should be terrified, creeped out, or at the very least uncomfortable here. But I’m okay. I eat the entire sandwich.

It feels good to have my belly full. When I was with Kyle, I was always a little nervous and was hesitant to eat. I was more worried about making a good impression than satisfying my hunger.

Now he’s dead, gone forever, and I’m ravenous.

I grab a water, twist off the top, and drink as I walk toward another set of blinds, press the button that opens them. The clouds in the sky have grown thicker, and the waves break faster. The weather app calls for a 70 percent chance of rain this afternoon. Moving around the room, I turn on more lights, which dispel some of the gloom outside. I need to get moving if I hope to be out of here before the bad weather arrives.

Setting the water bottle on the counter, I walk toward the stairs. Carefully, I run my hand over the smooth black metal banister. I count the twenty-one steps. The pitch isn’t extreme, but the angle certainly is sharp enough to kill.

I climb the stairs quickly, anxious to be off them as fast as possible. At the landing I look over my shoulder, hoping for a spark ofmemory. What were we doing up here? We were standing close. I was smiling, right? He was staring at me with an intensity that seared my skin.

Detective Becker said there were no drugs or alcohol in Kyle’s system. But there were traces of a sedative in mine. Sure, I was nervous, but I only took my normal nighttime sleep meds. The lab must have picked up traces of those.

Detective Becker doesn’t believe me, and I have no idea why. Maybe theundeterminedruling by the medical examiner has satisfied most, but it appears he’s not mollified. That would explain the visit.

I move away from the top step down the hallway. I stop at the first guest room. A king-size bed with a white metal bedframe and an aqua coverlet dominates the center. There’s a horizontal mirror over the headboard, chunky distressed side tables sporting wooden lamps with round beige shades. Hardback books are neatly stacked in two piles on a rustic bench at the foot of the bed. The top book is a pictorial featuring historic sailor’s knots.

The furnishings are lovely. I could outfit several apartments for what they cost.

The next two rooms are similar. It’s not until I get to the end of the hallway and reach the largest bedroom that I hesitate. This had been Kyle’s room.

The whitewashed four-poster bed is massive. The navy-blue coverlet is rumpled, and the pillows are carefully arranged on a nearby chair. The creases are proof that we lay here, but the covers aren’t pulled back, so I guess we couldn’t have lingered long. What had happened?

I spot my purse, move toward it, and fish out my phone, wallet, keys, and bottle of pills. Rolling my shoulders, I try to release the heaviness seeping into my bones. I open the wallet, count out the ten one-dollar bills and inventory my two credit cards. All present and accounted for. I shake the pill bottle, but don’t hear a familiar rattle. I open it and realize it’s empty. “What the hell?”

I filled this prescription last week. I should have plenty. Shit. I’ve no idea how many people have been in the house since yesterday, but why take the pills and leave the money and credit cards behind?

My phone’s battery is dead, so I plug the charger into an outlet by the bed. Opening the curtains, I look out over the dark houses across the street. I’m utterly alone.

My hip aches, so I sit on the edge of the bed and scan the room. There are several lovely sketches of nude women. Nothing graphic, but it’s clear Kyle loved the feminine shape.

The bed’s softness melts into me as I wait for the phone to charge before I open the photos and search for the pictures I took of Kyle and me. I need to seeussmiling and enjoying life. I need to prove that we were real. That we were happy.

I blink, rolling my shoulders again. My body is stiffening, and my limbs feel weighted by iron.

There should be selfies of Kyle and me in the driveway in front of this house. When we arrived yesterday, he was wearing a navy-blue quarter-zip pullover, and his dark hair was wind-tousled. He was reluctant to take a picture, but in the end my teasing won him over.

“I didn’t think you were the pushy type,” he says.

I hold out the camera, feeling playful. “You make that sound like a bad thing.”

He wraps his arm around my shoulder and holds me close to his side. “Not at all.”

I snap a few pictures, and we both agree the images are flattering. We decide it’s a good omen for our new relationship. I like omens and signs. The world is full of messages, but we miss them if we’re not paying attention.

But as I scroll, I don’t see the images. I find the series of selfies I took Wednesday night with a few of the gals from the circle group. The girls were holding up their presents from Kyle, and all of them were grinning. All great moments.

I go further back in time to last weekend, when we went out to dinner. There are pictures of the food I ate and the sunset off therestaurant’s back deck. But all the shots I took of us have vanished. It’s as if we never were.

No record of us. What the hell? I know I took those pictures. Did I delete them? And why would I do that?

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