Page 96 of The House Beyond the Dunes

It’s where I should be. I need to wrap this visit up and get the hell out of here. But this place has sunk hooks into me. And what I want doesn’t seem to matter right now.

I grab my coat, hat, and gloves and step out into the cold wind. Down the front steps, I stare at Kyle’s oceanfront house. Kyle and Istood in this spot days ago. Our arms were locked, but he made no mention of Reece’s presence, the crushing water damage, or that it was his property.I’ve always loved this area.

Curious, I move toward the house and climb the front steps as I had last night. I try the front door and discover it’s open. Hinges squeak as I step inside. The interior is cold, and shadows weigh heavy as the morning sun’s orange rays bounce off the walls.

I glance toward the large beige couch in the corner of the room and remember how lost I felt when Reece was kissing me. If not for the distraction of the shutter, who knows what would have happened.

I cross through the kitchen. On the marble counter is a pair of worn work gloves. Reece. I pick up the gloves and clench my fingers around them. The leather is soft, made even more buttery by endless hours of work. I raise the gloves to my nose and smell him. So different from Kyle.

Moving up the central staircase, I realize the house’s interior mirrors the larger one across the street on the beach. I suspect Kyle had had a vision with this house, but he wasn’t happy with what he created. So, he started again across the street. He remade his dream, only bigger and grander.

I climb the stairs. The second floor is intact. Carpet, walls, even the artwork on the walls is in place. In the largest bedroom, the rumpled sheets on a king-size bed remind me again of Reece, but this time I picture him kissing Devon. Why do I care that they screwed last night? I mean nothing to them, and they even less to me.

I run my fingers over the white sheets. As I turn, I see a trail of red leading into the bathroom. I follow and step into the bathroom. There’s a spray of blood on the counter and pools of it in the sink. The mirror is cracked in the center, as if someone slammed a fist into it. The blood wasn’t leading into the bathroom but out of it.

My stomach tightens. What the hell happened?

There’s no blood downstairs or on the steps, so whatever happened, it occurred up here. Did Reece return upstairs, see himself in the mirror, and strike?

Back in the bedroom, I move to the side table and open it. There’s a holstered gun settled in the center and several single condom packets. The gun is not secure, and the house is unlocked. That doesn’t seem like something Reece would do. Whatever happened here must’ve been fast and unexpected.

I call Reece. It rings four times, and the call lands in voice mail. As I stare at the gun, I find I’m at a loss for words. I end the call and close the drawer.

Out of the main room, I move to each of the three other bedrooms. They are all neat, clean, and untouched.

Downstairs I search for any signs of blood. There’s nothing. Whatever happened upstairs was contained there.

Outside a truck rumbles down the street. It slows and pulls into this driveway. I freeze. And then finding my legs, I hurry toward the back door, open it, and slip outside. Carefully, I close the door and wait as footsteps thud on the front deck.

I rush down the stairs, careful to keep my footsteps light. When I reach the sandy soil, I run away from the beach toward the woods. My hip complains bitterly, and I beg it to hold steady. Just a little bit longer.

I finally stop running when my lungs and hip both are burning. It’s ice in my lungs and fire in my hip, but I’ve put at least a half mile between myself and the house.

Pressing my palm against the joint, I rub and pray I’ve not torn my labrum. Pushing the clutch when I drive out of here might be a challenge, but I’ll manage.

I jam my hands into my coat pockets and realize I still have Reece’s gloves. I hold them up, wondering how I could have made such a stupid mistake. I am not only a snoop but also a thief.

How do I return these without an awkward explanation?Hey, looking around in your house. Picked these up on a lark. Didn’t mean to take them. By the way, what’s the deal with the blood? And did you have sex with Devon?

Why don’t I get in the car and leave this entire place behind?

There are no other houses on this packed-sand road, and as I walk closer to the woods, I feel as if I’m again leaving what remains of my world behind. Thick trees line both sides of the road. Wind blows down the street, snaking under the open folds of my jacket. I zip up the front and burrow my hands into Reece’s gloves. They’re surprisingly soft and warm.

It takes ten minutes to reach the old, graying house that had been Kyle’s as a child. All the while, I’m on the lookout for Earl. If we cross paths now, I doubt there’d be anyone around to help if I scream.

The house is as I remember it. Sun-bleached gray siding, overgrown bushes and vines, and a roof that sags in on itself. It’s as if this land resents the house and is doing its best to retake the timbers, swallow the entire structure back into the earth, and erase traces of all things made by human hands.

I follow the overgrown, narrow graveled path that snakes across the sandy soil toward the house’s stairs. Weeds and vines brush my legs and several grab hold, forcing me to pull free.

At the house, the railing is shaky, and several steps are broken. It’s a fall waiting to happen.

Gingerly, I place a foot on the bottom step. It’s sturdy enough. I climb up another and another. I’m halfway up when the boards under my feet splinter and crack. The railing wobbles, and for a moment I’m certain I’m going to fall. I stagger a step forward. Time stops.

This time I see our fall happening in real time. Kyle is facing me. My hand is pressed to his chest. The thump, thump of his heart flutters under my fingers. I lose my footing, fall forward, and my body tilts into his. He tries to steady us, but he teeters off balance. And we fall. One instant we’re on the top step, and the next we’re lying on the marble floor covered in blood.

Did I cause the fall? Did I stumble, trip, or misstep? The remaining missing seconds are winnowing down. Just a few beats, and I’ll have the full picture.

I grip the railing. Another good shake proves it still holds well enough, so I step over the broken tread. I hurry to the porch.

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