Page 191 of Secrets Along the Shore
I studied him for a moment. “Idon’t, actually. I didn’t grow up here.”
Evan looked away. “Just…stories, that’s all.”
My hands curled into fists at my sides. “Stories about him?”
He met my gaze again, but there was something unreadable in his eyes now. “That he wasn’t what he seemed. That this place wasn’t either.” He nodded to the secret room. “I think this proves the locals had been right about the man.”
“I never heard any of those stories,” I signed quickly while I spoke, frustration burning in my chest.
He watched my hands and frowned. “How could you hear what people said behind you?” he asked. “You couldn’t. You were kept in the dark.”
I flinched, not because he was wrong, but because he wasright.
I’d lived in silence. I still did. The world spoke in whispers, and I missed half of them. How much information had I missed during the five summers I stayed here?
The cold crept out from the open passage like an exhaling breath. I stepped closer into the dark, letting its next inhale pull me in—into Scanlon’s secrets that awaited me.
CHAPTER
FOUR
The secret studywas nothing like the rest of the lodge. While the house breathed of dust, pine, and the faint scent of lake water drying on wooden floors over the decades, this room felt preserved, sealed off from time itself. Scanlon’s personal items filled the space, left behind because the family hadn’t known about the room. They’d emptied the rest of the house, taking everything they’d wanted, leaving me with their picked over furniture and more repairs than was possible to fix.
But they missed Scanlon’s study.
Evan took out his phone and turned the flashlight on. I did the same as we moved further into the space. My light cut across the shelves—floor to ceiling, filled with ledgers, journals, books that looked brittle to the touch. A massive desk sat beneath the single window, its surface covered in neat piles of paper, fountain pens, and a heavy old lamp with a green glass shade. The wallpaper was darker in here, unfaded in this hidden space.
Evan stepped up beside me to face me. “No way anyone knew this was here. It’s like a time capsule.”
I nod, barely focusing on him. My attention was drawn to a row of filing cabinets against the back wall. Not sleek, modern ones—these were old, scratched metal…clinical. I pulled open the top drawer. It stuck, but I gave a hard pull before it rolled out. Inside, a long alphabetical row of student names. All Deaf. All from the school.
I flipped through the files, scanning names I remembered from my time at the institution. Kids I hadn’t thought of in years. I pause when I come to my own.
McBride, Scarlett.
My fingers trembled as I lifted the folder. There were photos of me, some candid, others posed—taken during summers here at the lodge, but also from school. One shows me standing at the end of the dock, my hair in braids, smiling. I was so happy to be here, and the picture says so.
I scanned notes in Scanlon’s handwriting, observations marked with dates.Highly intelligent…Withdrawn at times…Strong connection with Becca Bishop.
My knees buckled slightly at the name. I slumped into the old desk chair and whispered aloud, “Becca…” Why did Scanlon make a note about Becca in my file?
I flipped through the papers in the file, stopping at a newspaper clipping. It was a picture of Becca’s little sister. Her name still didn’t form in my mind, even while her image faced me. I lifted my hand and instantly, I formed the letter “L” as the memory unlocked a door in my mind.
I used to sign “L” for her name. But what was her full name? What did the “L” stand for?
Frustrated, I dropped the folder on the desk and noticed the article was folded with the bottom half unseen. I opened and flattened it to view the entire picture. Beneath the image was the headline that read:Tragic Drowning Mars Summer on Flathead Lake.
Another photo shows emergency boats, rescue divers, and shocked faces of bystanders. I scanned the article.
Olivia Bishop, age ten, reportedly drowned in the late hours following the Fourth of July celebrations. Her body was recovered the following day. Her parents declined to comment.
Ten. She was ten when she drowned. Maybe that’s why I can only remember her as Becca’s little sister. She never aged past ten.
My throat felt as though it was being choked. I saw her—just daysago, in flashes of memory, in my dreams that woke me sweating, heart pounding.
Now I knew she was real.
This room. This file. It proves she existed. That I didn’t imagine her. That she was real, and she was my friend.
