Page 44 of The House Beyond the Dunes

“Are you here, Kyle?” I whisper.

The wind blows outside, thumping against the windows. The house sways gently. The ocean roars.

Of course he’s not here. He’s gone. Dead. We knew each other all of three weeks. Hardly a great love.

Shrugging off my jacket, I snag a water from the refrigerator and climb the main staircase.

“Why do I think you’re keeping big secrets, Kyle? Why can’t I just leave and forget you?”

Chapter Twelve

LANE

Sunday, December 31, 2023

9:00 a.m.

A hush penetrates the house. I can almost feel Kyle standing behind me, laughing softly in my ear as I move into his bedroom. I open the closet and stare at the jackets, pants, and shirts hanging in a neat row. There’s a blazer that’s well made and suits his world in Virginia Beach. I open the coat to search the breast pockets, and as I do the faint scent of Kyle reaches out. I press the jacket’s sleeve against my nose and inhale more of him.

Kyle wouldn’t approve of me searching his pockets or his desk drawers. He’d likely talk very logically about boundaries and minding one’s own business.

I’ll be a psychologist soon. I’ll get paid to root in personal lives. Maybe not literally, but I reason if the shoe was on the other foot, Kyle would wander around my apartment, trying to discover more about me.

Still, I feel disapproval pressing against my shoulders like invisible hands.

“I’m sorry. But I have to.” My fingers fish inside the front pocket and skim over a small set of keys tucked in a corner. I pluck them out and hold them up. They’re small enough to fit a desk drawer lock.

I move toward the stairs and pause at the top. For a moment, a wave of dizziness swirls around me. Hand on the railing, I draw in a breath and move down the steps. At the bottom, I feel energy gush faster, as if an unhappy Kyle is watching.

Gripping the keys tighter, I hurry into the office and sit at Kyle’s desk. My hands shake slightly as I work the key into the lock. It doesn’t turn. Pulling the key out, I flip it over and push it in again.

“Please, please, please.” I hear the note of begging and wonder why I’m so desperate and determined.

The key turns, and the well-oiled lock releases a latch.

My mouth is dry as I glance forward, expecting to see Devon, Reece, or even Kyle standing there. Of course, I’m alone with only my guilt.

Catching my breath, I whisper, “I’m not stealing. I’m not doing anything wrong.” Why am I being so quiet? Because I feel guilty.

I pull open the drawer and discover a thick, black-bound journal. The leather binding is rich, smooth, and I know this style of journal was a favorite of Kyle’s. He always had a version of this book (maybe this one) tucked under his arm when we met for morning coffee. I joked about it once, saying,Dear Diary, I love my life.A smile had flickered at the edges of his lips, but I sensed he hadn’t liked me noticing or mentioning the book.

Heart beating faster, I open it. On page one Kyle has written Dr.Kyle J.Iverson, PhD, and his phone number. I smooth my hands over his bold lettering tucked in the upper left-hand corner.

Carefully, I turn the page. It’s blank. I run my fingers over the linen paper and feel the faint, soft impression of a word. I grab a pencil from the leather holder, then snatch a piece of paper from the printer on the credenza behind the desk and place it over the pages. Gently, I lay theside of the pencil on the paper and rub it softly over the impressions. AnSappears, then aTand anEbefore the full word materializes.

Stevie.

“Stevie.” I can’t be 100 percent certain he’s referring to Stevie Palmer, but I’m 99.9 percent there.

Why had Kyle written down Stevie’s name?

Kyle knew Stevie. And she clearly knows me. These two facts can’t be random.

Did she see me with Kyle? Is she trying to make a point? Maybe the two of them had had a thing before, and she’s pissed and messing with me now.

The chair squeaks as I lean back. My face feels hot, likely flushed with color. “Stevie, what’s going on here?”

I picture Kyle and me standing at the top of the stairs, but this time a different image flashes in my mind. Kyle is holding my arm tightly, staring down at me with a mixture of mirth and malevolence.

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