Page 109 of The House Beyond the Dunes

“Kyle, who were you?”

My chest tightens as a memory, maybe from one of Stevie’s diary entries, bubbles through my subconscious.

She’s tied to a bed like this. She’s cold, wet, and so scared. It feels as if her body is being split in two.

“You like this, don’t you?” he asks.

“No!” she screams.

I step back as if I’ve been hit by lightning. Where the hell did that come from? Did Stevie write about it in her entries? I can’t remember. Must check.

Nothing like that has ever happened to me, and I struggle to pull in a deep breath. That memory is not mine and makes me wonder if I’m channeling the energy in this room.

I back away from the bed and out of the room. My heart throbs. This entire house resonates evil.

I move carefully and swiftly down the stairs. As I reach the bottom step, I sense that someone is behind me, watching. Stevie. Nikki. Kyle. All ghosts. I turn, look up the stairs, but there’s no one there. The wind blows outside. I’m alone.

I take several pictures of the living room, open the broken window, and climb out onto the deck. I draw in a deep breath and stare at the overcast, gray sky. The salty air smells sweet, but it doesn’t chase away the house’s stale, musty scent that’s invaded me. I close the back window, leaving it unlocked.

Down the steps, I retrace my path through the bramble, and when I emerge on the road, I know I need to leave. I didn’t like Detective Becker, but it’s time to call him. Maybe he can get a forensic team up here. They can sample the bedsheets, and the stain in Kyle’s beach cottage.

Rain taps against the house’s metal roof as I move down the pathway toward the beach road. I cross over the dunes and repeat my steps. The ocean is churning, and the waves are crashing close to the dunes, leaving only a narrow path for me. The black truck is gone; likely he saw the tide coming in and took off. As I stand here alone, invisible bands wrap around me, squeezing my body tight.

When I turn the corner, I’m relieved to see the cottage and my Jeep parked next to the Range Rover. The waves are hitting so high, the cold, salty spray splashes my face. High tide or not, I’ll leave for Norfolk as soon as I am packed.

Nearing the house, I hear a circular saw buzzing in the house across the street. The first-floor lights are ablaze, and Reece’s large frame passes in front of the window. He doesn’t pause or look in my direction, and I’m relieved. The less contact I have with him and Devon the better.

As I approach my Jeep, my gaze lands on the front tire. It looks off. When I kneel, I realize in the fading light that it’s flat. I look toward the Range Rover. Both back tires are flat. As I run my hand over the tire, I think about Stevie’s last entry. We’re both chasing after Kyle Iverson.

She’s now missing. And I’m trapped.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

STEVIEPALMER’SDIARY

Friday, July 7, 2023

8:30 p.m.

As I drive back to Joey’s, I’m certain getting information out of Kyle Iverson is not going to be easy. He’s smart, and after our meeting I wonder if I’m chasing him or he’s now chasing me. He’s clearly not convinced I want therapy.

I consider making a flyer with Nikki’s face on it. But I don’t have a picture of her, and I don’t have access to a computer. And how will my paltry collection of facts inspire anyone to find her? Nikki Kane, age twenty-five-ish, light-brown hair, is missing. Last seen in a nice car maybe with Kyle Iverson.

I park in the alley beside Joey’s, and as I get out of my car, I notice a couple of the women standing on the corner staring at me. I’ve seen them before in Joey’s. I suspect both deal drugs in between various dates each evening. I don’t judge. We all got to get by.

I smile and move toward them. “Ladies. How are you doing this evening?”

One woman is tall, wafer thin with long black hair that falls over her shoulders. She’s wearing a mesh jacket, a miniskirt, and low-heel boots. I think her name is Kit. The other woman, Delores, is shorter, more buxom with a fuller waist. She wears a tank that hugs her midsize breasts, a miniskirt as short as Kit’s, hiking boots that look ideal for running—a skill a gal like her needs from time to time.

“Stevie,” Delores says.

“Gals, I’m looking for Nikki. She bartended with me on July 1 and 2. No one has seen her.”

Delores frowns. “I know the kid. Perky. Doesn’t always make the best decisions.” She shakes her head. “I haven’t seen her.”

“You haven’t been here that long, right?” Kit asks. “Why do you care?”

“Someone has to, right?” I ask. “Word is she was seen with a guy named Kyle Iverson. Drives a fancy car.”

---