Page 39 of The House Beyond the Dunes

The woman looks at the rumpled bills before taking them. “She works at a gift shop in Corolla. It’s called Sea Change or something like that.”

“Jana at Sea Change. In Corolla.” I haven’t been up that way in a long time. As I’m turning, I pause. “Anyone else ask about Nikki?”

“No.”

“Did she have any regular visitors?”

The woman shoves the bills in her back pocket and starts to push the door shut. “I’m not a den mother, lady. Ask Jana. She should know.” She shakes her head. “I’ve seen too many kids like Nikki. Think they can get out of this life if they can just find the right man. I’ve never seen that work.”

“Right.”

I walk back to my car, knowing if the cops ever show and see the blood in the rooms, that woman is going to mention me, the gal with muddy-brown hair. The one who was looking for money from Nikki.

That description fits dozens, if not hundreds, of people. And most never remember as well as they think. Facts, descriptions, and details all fade or get jumbled by emotions or life experiences.

But if she does remember me, the cops will be looking for Stevie Palmer. And guess what, they aren’t going to find her. Why am I so sure? Because Stevie Palmer doesn’t exist on paper. She’s a figment of my imagination, and when the time comes, I’ll retire her and create a new identity.

I’m not ready to call the cops. They might send a squad car eventually, but a girl like Nikki isn’t on anyone’s priority list. So, for now, I’ll find a quiet spot, sleep for a few hours, and maybe Nikki will find her common sense and show up to work tonight.

Chapter Eleven

LANE

Sunday, December 31, 2023

7:00 a.m.

I wake to the beep of the microwave and the hum of the heating system powering up. The lights in the living room blink on. I spent the night on the couch, reading Stevie’s diary while huddled under blankets, willing my dying phone to hang on. I don’t remember when the phone finally died. I’m not sure how long I stared at the lightning flashing over the ocean or listened to thunder cracking as winds howled before I fell asleep.

My eyes burn with fatigue. Without my pills, I don’t wake up as rested. Without the pills, I live in a constant state of fatigue. I keep telling myself when I get a job with benefits, I’ll see a doctor who can dig deeper, but for now I’ve made do with the urgent care prescription. I’d love to know who the hell took my pills.

Pushing off the sofa, I move toward the kitchen and a stainless-steel coffee maker. Kyle loved his cup of morning brew and was a snob when it came to his brand. I don’t care about, nor can I afford, fancy labels. If not for my job at the coffee shop, I’d always be drinking the grocerystore brand. I just need caffeine, energy, juice to power me through the day.

I rummage through cabinets, find the coffee beans and the grinder. I’ve done this so much at work, the process is automatic.

When the machine is set and brewing coffee, the smell fills the room with scents that I always associate with hope. Hope for more energy. Hope for the next day that is a step closer to my degree. Hope that I might make a difference in someone’s life.

The heating system is now humming, but the air remains cool. I fill my mug and then splash my favorite hazelnut creamer (thank you, Kyle, for remembering) and take a long sip. Cradling the cup, I absorb its warmth.

I look through the kitchen toward the base of the stairs. This house has an energy that leaves me uneasy.

Shifting from the stairs toward the sliding deck doors, I glance up at turbulent, blue-black clouds, plump with more rain. The ocean is unsettled, choppy, and hurls water over the beach up to the base of the dunes. The shoreline is littered with clumps of seaweed and shattered pieces of fencing cracked like matchsticks. It’s going to be a few more hours before the tide recedes enough for me to leave.

As I turn from the window, I catch a flash of bright yellow off to my right. A closer look reveals a woman walking along the beach. She’s wearing a lemony jacket, a black knit hat, leggings, and hiking boots. Seems odd to see the lone figure out there this early on such a cold day.

As she passes in front of the house, she looks up and waves. Automatically, I raise my hand and wave back.

She takes this as an invitation and moves toward the house. I’m torn between panic at having to make conversation and hunger for a little human contact.

Gulping another sip of coffee, I set the mug down and grab my coat, then unlock the back door. Outside a cold blast of air strikes me in the face. My eyes water, and I blink before I burrow my hands into mypockets and move across the back deck toward the stairs. The woman and I reach the bottom step at the same time.

“I see you made it.” She’s a little taller than me, but her frame is slighter. “I’m Devon.”

I extend my hand, and she easily captures my fingers in warm leather gloves. “I’m Lane.”

“You didn’t get out in time.”

“I fell asleep, and then it was too dark to drive out.”

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