Page 52 of The House Beyond the Dunes

Glancing toward the stairs, I pause, then glower at the scrubbed white floor. Devon is as present in this house as Kyle.

My stomach grumbles, and suddenly I realize I’m starving again. My appetite has returned with a vengeance.

I grab all the luncheon meats, lettuce, condiments, and bread. Within a few minutes, I’m eating. Filling my belly calms the grumbling but doesn’t soften the sense of unease burning in my chest. Coming here wasn’t a good idea. And still, I’m in no rush to leave.

When I’m finished, I put my plate in the sink, and then I walk into Kyle’s office and switch on the lights. I move past his desk to the closet behind it. Door open, I stare into the sterile space, inhale the scent of fresh paint.

When I was a small child, I remember climbing into the closet in my room, burrowing behind the clothes, and closing my eyes. Beyond the closed door, I could hear my mother shouting. She was arguing with a man, a different one each week it seemed. I still don’t recall those arguments, but the anger and venom behind them has always lingered like a bad smell you can’t clear from your nose.

My mother wasn’t an evil person. She didn’t choose to be a single mom. She wanted to love me as other moms do. She said often enough,I should bake cookies for you. Braid your hair.She loved me. I know she did. Yet loneliness drove her into the arms of men who didn’t deserve her.

I never told any of this to Kyle. It was simply too soon in our relationship, though I wonder if time would’ve made a difference for me.Maybe I would’ve told him one day. Maybe he would’ve opened up to me about whatever life he lived in that small house tucked in the woods.

Maybe not.

I happen to glance at my phone and see Detective Becker’s name. I realize the phone has been on mute. I clear my throat. “Detective Becker.”

“Lane, you found your phone. Did you lose it again?”

I see now I’ve missed three of his calls. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m headed your way.”

“What do you mean? I’m not at home.”

“I know. You’re at Kyle Iverson’s beach house.”

“How do you know?”

“Your phone is pinging up there.”

I glance at the phone. Traitor. “Terrific.”

“I caught you off guard on Friday. Kind of an ambush. I didn’t mean for our first meeting to be so contentious.”

I suspect it went exactly as he’d hoped. “What’s your point?”

“I want us to talk about theaccident.”

Did he put extra emphasis on the last word, or is my imagination firing out of control?

“I’m hoping since you’ve been at the house, a few memories have wrestled free,” he says.

“I don’t remember anything new,” I lie.

“Doesn’t take twenty-one hours to retrieve a phone.”

“The weather has been bad. Driving south on the beach is too dangerous.”

“You found your way in.”

“Barely, it seems. The beach has changed. It’s difficult to navigate now.”

“I’ve driven in worse. Won’t be a problem for me. Besides, if you have memories or any reactions to the house, it’s my business. In case you forgot, a man died in that house two days ago.”

“When I return home, I’ll stop by your offices in western Currituck County.”

“No need. Turns out, I’m less than ten minutes away from you. Just pulling off the beach now.”

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