Page 129 of The House Beyond the Dunes

“I’ll take both.”

That’s a little surprising. He looks like a black coffee kind of guy. Intense. Strong. I set the milk and sugar in front of him. He lumps two sugars and a large splash of milk in his cup. “The one time I dressed my coffee in front of Stevie, she gave me shit for it.”

“Why is that?”

He takes a long sip. “I guess she thought everyone drank their coffee black.” A smile plays on his lips. “I think she liked to get under my skin. Her way of showing me she cared, I guess.”

“Liked. Past tense.” I feel an unexplainable pull to him, as if I know him. “Who was Stevie to you?”

He sets his cup down. “That’s a big question with a complicated answer.”

“Why is it complicated? It’s very simple.”

He reaches in his coat pocket and pulls out a page torn from a notebook. I recognize Stevie’s bold, dark handwriting. “These are the last pages of her journal. She told me not to send them unless you were ready to read all. I think you are.”

“Why did you send the pages to me? It all feels so random.”

“It’s not.” A sigh leaks through his lips. “Read the pages. And if you have questions, we’ll talk.”

I drop my gaze to the page.

Dear Lane,

Here’s the thing, I know you better than you do yourself. I have since we were kids. This is going to sound crazy, but I swear it’s all true.

See, you and I are the same person. Two sides of the same coin.

I draw in a sharp breath. The claim is insane.

I stepped forward when we were kids, so I could take the abuse from Mom’s boyfriend when we were very little. I took on the pain so you wouldn’t have to, so we could survive. And I got good at it. Maybe too good.

You must’ve sensed there was something wrong with you, because you started seeing the therapist a couple of years ago. Your journey to wholeness was the beginning of my demise. I realized last summer that when I “got out,” my time was limited. Like I always do when I’m out, I go to Nags Head to the place where Kyle and Jeb grabbed me fourteen years ago. Criminals are creatures of habit, too. And I hoped I’d find one of them eventually.

You don’t remember, but I do. They took me to the woodland house, and well, safe to say, I thought I was going to die. They tied me to the bed for hours. I screamed until I was hoarse. And then they left, and Reece arrived. He let me go. I could barely walk,but I got dressed and ran. When I made it back to the hard-surface road in Virginia, I called your foster mother. She picked me up and took me to the hospital. The cops asked me over and over who did this to us, but I wouldn’t say who. When I arrived back at the foster home, I melted away into you.

I can tell you now, if not for Reece, I’m sure Kyle or Jeb would have killed me. I—we—would’ve been swallowed up for good, and no one would have cared.

Anyway, I was in Nags Head during this summer when I met Nikki. When I walked into Joey’s, I saw Kyle. I didn’t recognize him at first. I sensed he was off, but he was so polished, so not like the grungy young man who I’d crossed paths with fourteen years ago. And then I saw him flirting with Nikki before she vanished. And as you now know, the trail kept circling back to him. It wasn’t until that “counseling” session I had with him that the dots connected for me. I know he took me, and he killed Nikki. I can’t prove anything, but maybe that’s where you’ll come in.

This last night with Sully, I can feel myself slipping. I have so many reasons to stay, but you’ve never allowed me more than a week or two. I don’t expect picket fences for Sully and me. I doubt he does, either. But go easy on him, he’s a good guy.

I hope you can figure out what Kyle did. I’m not worried about me, but maybe it would all be worth it if you found Nikki. Don’t let her vanish into the cracks.

Take care of yourself. Stevie.

I sit back, look at Detective Becker, and search my memory for any of the moments he shared with Stevie. The sex. The affection. But there’s nothing. No sign of us. Them.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“It’s something, isn’t it?” Detective Becker says.

I clear my throat. I don’t know how to process all this. My first reaction is that it’s an insane piece of fiction. I’ve another personality in me. And she/I slept with Sully ... Becker. I can’t tell by his expression how he feels.

“I don’t recall any of Stevie’s life,” I say carefully.

“Yeah, I get that.” He’s trying not to sound frustrated as he reaches for his phone and pulls up a picture. “The one picture Stevie allowed me to take of us. I think she said yes because she knew a moment like this might happen.”

I stare at a face that looks like me, but the expression, body language, dark-rinsed hair, and entire demeanor are not me. The eyes staring back are street savvy, hardened, and vulnerable. I have no memory of any of it.

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