Page 66 of The House Beyond the Dunes

“Thanks. I appreciate that.”

“The beach is still dicey today. But tomorrow afternoon is clear. I strongly suggest you leave then.”

I look toward the tall windows now damp with rain droplets. I’m not sorry I have a reason to stay. “Thanks.”

He leaves, moving down the stairs and across the street without looking back once. When he vanishes into his house, my phone dings with a text.

More for you to read, Lane.

The caller’s name isn’t displayed, and I don’t recognize the number. There’s a link in the text. My thumb hovers over it. Stupid to open it. Computer viruses. No telling what will happen.

But my yearning for any kind of answer that’ll settle this growing disquiet overrules common sense. I press the link before I can think twice.

It opens to scanned written pages. The handwriting matches the initial diary entries from Stevie Palmer.

The small format is difficult to read on my phone, so I move into Kyle’s office and flip on the bright lights. There’s a printer on the credenza by his desk. It’s still powered up, and there’s paper in the tray.

It takes me a second or two to configure my phone to the printer, and then I press the “Print” button. The machine remains still, silent. A few seconds pass. Then a few more. “Come on, print.”

Finally, internal gears shift, lights blink, and the first page spits out of the machine.

My heart is racing as I watch the second, then third pages of Stevie’s diary spill out. The sheets keep rolling, piling up in the paper catcher, until the machine finally goes silent.

I thumb through the still-warm twenty-six pages. “Why me, Stevie Palmer?”

Written on the last page is another personal note.

You can’t forget me, Lane.

Chapter Seventeen

STEVIEPALMER’SDIARY

Wednesday, July 5, 2023

5:45 p.m.

Fifteen minutes before closing, I make it to the small gift shop where Nikki’s ex-roommate works. I’m hoping that the store is empty, but like most of the retail shops along Route 12, it’s bustling. It’s high season, vacation time, and everyone’s ready to spend money.

The shop is stocked with beach souvenirs, towels, bobbleheads, snow globes, and all the clutter that eventually ends up in the trash or covered in dust on a shelf. There are about a half dozen people in the shop, mostly teens.

The woman behind the counter is young. Her hair is a dark brown, her makeup a tad overdone, and she’s wearing a black V-neck T-shirt. Her look is edgy. I’m betting this is Jana.

I’ve never seen this woman in the bar with Nikki, but just because they shared a trailer for a couple of weeks doesn’t mean they hung out together.

I reach for a snow globe that contains a mini version of the Currituck lighthouse and seashells floating among liquid snow. Thebase is embossed withCorolla, North Carolina. I look over the trinkets, killing time until the last customer has left.

“Can I help you?” The clerk eyes me. I don’t look like the knickknack type, so she must be trying to figure out my angle.

“Sorry to bother you, Jana,” I say.

Her brow furrows. “Do I know you?”

“We never met formally. I worked with Nikki.”

She walks to the front door. It’s almost closing time, so she locks it, but she lingers close in case a customer insists on shopping. She might also be worried about me, and I’m not even trying to be scary.

“How can I help you?” Jana asks.

---