Page 13 of The House Beyond the Dunes

Kyle angles his car close to the water and around the house. He keeps driving, and when I glance in the rearview mirror, there’s nothing but empty beach for as far as I can see. We drive for another ten or fifteen minutes. There’s no traffic on the beach, and the cottages beyond the barren dunes are dark.

In the distance, I see a fence that stretches from the water, along the beach and over the dunes. According to my research, this fence marks the Virginia and North Carolina border. It’s designed to keep the horses from wandering north.

When it seems that we are running out of beach, Kyle takes a sharp left and arrows the Range Rover directly toward a channel cutting through the dunes. My heartbeat ramps up in a fight-or-flight leap, and I hold mybreath. The front wheel hits a rut, and the vehicle tosses me against the door. Finally, we break through to the other side of the dunes and roll onto hard-packed sand.

The breath trapped in my lungs leaks out. “Feels like we’re leaving the world behind.”

Kyle looks at me and grins. “Sure you aren’t afraid?”

I scoff. “What’s there to be afraid of?”

He arches a brow. “Can’t fool me, Lane. I know you too well.”

I learned at a young age to guard my thoughts. Safer not to put all the cards on the table. I’ve revealed more to Kyle than anyone else, but my jokers and aces remain tucked up my sleeve. Ingrained habits don’t die easily.

“Maybe I’m a little nervous,” I concede. “This is a first for me.”

His hand shifts from the steering wheel to my thigh. He squeezes. “Don’t worry, baby. I got you.”

When he calls mebaby, I feel protected. Ex–foster kids tend to like their security. How did I get so lucky with Kyle?

Lucky.

I don’t feel lucky now.

Mine has been a long, hard journey from foster care, but I’ve made it. My life is on track, I’m making a difference. And until yesterday at 1:00 p.m., I wasn’t alone anymore.

Rising, I move to the kitchen, pour cold coffee from the urn, and put it in the microwave. The bell dings, and the coffee is hot, but also bitter. Outside, the mailman’s keys rattle as he opens the mailboxes. I wait until his footsteps recede before I grab my extra key and move slowly down the stairs and out my front door. As I open my box, I glance up and notice a manila envelope resting on top of the boxes. It’s addressed to me. No return address. A mystery. I hate mysteries. I’m a Leo. We like having answers.

Back in my apartment, I curl up on the couch, cup in hand, and sip hot bitterness. I stare at the envelope.

A knock on the door startles me out of my melancholy. I’m in no mood to deal with the detective. A fist raps against the door again. Drawing in a breath, I open it and am surprised to see Shelly.

“Shelly. Everything all right?” I ask.

She nibbles her lip. “I should be asking you that.”

It’s not like her to hover or wonder how I’m doing. “I’m okay.”

“Checking in,” she says. “It’s not the kind of thing I do, and tomorrow I might forget about you altogether, but I’m remembering now.”

Her fleeting kindness is touching. “Thanks, Shelly.”

“That guy that was here last night ... was he the one from the parking lot?”

No sense getting into a story she won’t remember tomorrow. “He’s gone, and that’s all that matters.”

She frowns. “He’s not the type that gives up.”

“How do you know that?” I ask.

Shelly’s eyes spark with wisdom and mischief. “I’ve been around enough to know when a man won’t go away. I’m guessing he’s not a stalker, but he’s trouble.”

“He’s a cop.”

Her eyes narrow. “Did you see his badge?”

“Yes. I asked.” When she looks more worried, I add, “He’s gone. He asked a few questions and was satisfied.”

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