Page 91 of The House Beyond the Dunes

Chapter Twenty-Three

STEVIEPALMER’SDIARY

Friday, July 7, 2023

10:00 a.m.

When I wake up, I’m in the back seat of my car, curled on my side, my pillow tucked under my neck. My mouth is dry as I try to push up on my elbows. But as I struggle to rise, my body freezes as if imaginary hands press me flat against the worn cloth seat.

Panic rises in me. I push harder, but my muscles refuse to work. A heaviness weighs down on my body as hot, sour breath brushes my neck.I can do whatever I want to you. I own you.

Gritting my teeth, I push away the memory as I buck free of the past. “You don’t own me anymore, shithead,” I hiss.

Heart beating fast and sweat pooling at the base of my spine, I draw in several deep breaths as I swing my legs onto the car’s floor. I look around the back seat, scanning the discarded dirty shirts, jeans, and the extra pair of boots. I’d been exhausted when I parked last night, and I could barely summon the energy to kick my shoes off and pull the blanket over me.

I am alone in the car. There’s no one lurking in the corner. No one is restraining me. Nothing bad is going to happen to me today or ever again. I’m safe.

I can do whatever I want to you.Those echoing words, like coiling tentacles, spiral around me. “No, you can’t! No, you can’t!”

I can do whatever I want to you. Whatever. I. Want.

My fists clench as adrenaline pumps through my veins. I’m ready to fight whatever comes at me, real or imagined. I’ve been fighting since I was a kid, and combat is my superpower. Few people challenge me on the streets because there’s a look in my eye that signals I’m crazy enough to do anything.

Maybe that’s why I’m so worried about Nikki. She looked past all the damage and offered a brand of kindness that I’ve experienced so rarely in my life.

I climb over the seat and slide behind the steering wheel, fire up the engine, and drive to the YMCA. I wait until the man behind the desk is distracted, and then I hustle into the women’s locker room.

I strip, pull a towel from my backpack, and head into the showers. A twist of the knob and hot water splashes my body. When the steam rises, I step into the heat, willing it to chase the chill from my bones. I wash and scrub my skin until it’s pink.

Drawing in a breath, I towel off and make my way back to the changing area. A glance in the full-length mirror reflects bloodshot eyes ringed with dark circles. My cheeks are more hollow than usual, and the color in my hair is fading.

Yeah, surviving is my superpower. Still, in this moment, I’m shaken.

Toweling off, I dig clean jeans from my backpack and a black V-neck T-shirt. I slid on my brown leather boots. Most people are knocking around in flip-flops and shorts at the beach this time of year, but my wardrobe rarely wavers. Covered skin and boots are my protective shell.

I drag a brush through my damp darkish hair and bind it back in a small ponytail. The spray of freckles across my nose makes me lookuncomfortably younger. Without makeup, my version of battle paint, I feel vulnerable. I detest this bare, childish face.

“I’m not weak.” I grab foundation and dab a liberal portion over my nose. With each pass, I rub harder, erasing traces of the girl who’d once been too weak, too small to save herself. By the time I’ve lined my eyes, painted on eye shadow, and brushed on mascara, that girl is gone, and I feel in control. I am me again.

On the way out, I wave to the guy behind the counter, who seems to wonder who I am. I keep moving. I drive north, and my first stop is a quirky coffee shop with a vine-covered trellis. There’s a mural on the side of the building and benches outside that on a cool day would be nice. Inside the store, I scrounge a rumpled ten from my pocket and buy a double espresso and then dump the remaining singles in the tip jar.

The caffeine chases away some of the cobwebs and sharpens my focus as it juices me up. I am feeling more like myself. Less emotional. Detachment is like a muscle, and mine is well used.

It’s still midmorning. Joey will be looking for me at the bar by six, which gives me plenty of time to visit Nikki’s trailer one more time. Criminals do return to the scene of the crime to retrieve evidence or maybe even gloat. There will be a different crop of people stirring around this time of day, and there could be someone new who’s seen a stranger lurking around. Daylight will also offer a different perspective on everything.

The only lead I have to Nikki now is Bourbon. Kyle. Kyle Iverson. I don’t believe in coincidence, and Kyle Iverson was with Nikki the last time I saw her. He also hooked up with Jeanne for a night. And now he’s my new therapist. Kyle. Kyle. Kyle. The three faces of Kyle.

In midday beach traffic, the drive across the bridge to the mainland takes less than twenty before I pull onto the dirt road dividing the twin rows of beige trailers. There are plenty of jobs on the Outer Banks, but finding an affordable place to live is another matter. Few who visit here look beyond the sunny beaches and trendy shops. No one wants to see where their servers live. Sort of like finding out how the sausage is made.

I park and move toward Nikki’s place, and as I approach her door, I realize it’s open.

As I slow my pace, a man’s deep voice drifts out of the room, and when I look inside, I see a man with broad shoulders standing with his back to me, phone to his ear. He’s wearing jeans, a black T-shirt, and boots.

My foot nudges a beer can, and the man turns with startling speed. His hand goes to his hip and the grip of a gun holstered on his belt. His eyes meet mine, and after a beat, we both relax.

Something in his expression suggests he’s not surprised to see me here. He ends the call. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m still looking for Nikki. She hasn’t shown up for work, and no one has seen her.”

---