Page 210 of Secrets Along the Shore
He turned back to me, expression blank. “No idea. Never saw him before. Never saw him again.”
With that, Sheriff McNealy walked past me and into his office, shutting the door behind him.
I stepped out into the parking lot, folder under my arm, the wind cutting colder than before. I had to return to Becca’s house, and that chilled me more to the bone.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
The sun had begunits descent, casting long shadows across the road, and the pines that lined the shoreline of Flathead Lake whispered in the breeze like they were trying to warn me off. But I didn’t listen.
Becca Bishop had the answers I needed.
She’d been there the night Livvie died. Sheriff McNealy might not have known the name of the boy she was with, but he was sure of one thing—Becca knew more than she let on. And now, I needed to know what she knew.
I parked on the gravel drive and turned off the engine, letting my pounding heart calm down before I climbed the steps and stood before the old wooden door. I knocked once, then again. Nothing.
“Becca,” I called, my voice steady, hopefully loud and clear. I wouldn’t let her scare me again. “I know you’re in there. We need to talk.”
Finally, the door opened just a few inches. Becca’s face appeared, framed by shadows, her expression unreadable.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” she said.
I met her gaze. “We both know that’s not true. You have something to tell me. And I think part of you wants to.”
She opened the door fully now, stepping into view. She was composed, hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail, and her clothes wereneatly pressed. Her eyes, though, betrayed the tension simmering underneath.
“I have nothing to say to you,” she said. “You shouldn’t have come back. I blame you for what happened to Livvie.”
I flinched, but I held her gaze. “But I didn’t kill her. And you know that. In fact, you know more than you’re saying.”
Her jaw tightened. I stepped closer.
“Who was the boy you were with that night?”
Becca blinked, and for a moment, her expression faltered. But she quickly recovered. “I wasn’t with anyone.”
“You’re lying.”
The words hovered between us like smoke.
“He was just a friend.” Her eyes darted, not in guilt but as if reciting the excuse from memory. Like a script. A line she’d practiced until it felt like the truth.
“Who told you to say that?” I asked. “Your parents? Him?”
Becca’s lips thinned. She said nothing.
“What happened to him, Becca? To both of you? Who was it?”
She looked away, her hands clenching at her sides.
“Why did your parents leave town?” I pressed. “They ran away from this place. From you. I consider that odd.”
“They never wanted to see this place again,” she said with a bitter snarl. “Who could blame them?”
“But they left you behind,” I said softly.
The words hit her like a slap. Her shoulders dropped slightly, her eyes welled with something between fury and grief.
