Page 7 of Secrets Along the Shore
I knew he banked on the fact that my helping in the search might unlock some memory or some clue inside me as to the Serpent Killer and my own story. I knew he thought there might be a tie to my old case. He wasn’t wrong to think that. Anyone with any sense would be concerned that three young women had gone missing recently. The only difficulty was—and this is why I’d attempted to stay withdraw from it all—that there wasn’t anything similar to tie the disappearances to my case.
Ten years ago, there’d been three dead corpses before I’d disappeared. Three very murdered woman, with the Serpent’s artwork carved into their necks. Then there had been more women who hadvanished, and whose bodies were never found—assuming there were bodies to be found.
Three murder victims, additional women missing, and then I had been abducted. Only, I had finally turned up, walking alongside a road not terribly far from this one, covered in dirt and bruises and wounds. He had thought I was dead. I wasn’t. I was a survivor—but I couldn’t answer for the other women. I knew they existed. I had felt them. Heard them. Talked to them. But then, I’d left them behind.
So the only strong piece I could add to the puzzle was, when I’d been taken, the other women were still alive. Because I’d witnessed them. Which meant then, that I was supposed to have been dead corpse number four. Instead, I was live victim number one.
That must have driven the Serpent Killer wild. Or maybe it had scared him into hiding instead? Ten years was a long time to stay dormant. That was another reason my gut told me Sophia Bergstrom was not related to the Serpent Killer, in spite of the dead snake beneath her window. If she was, then what had he been doing since the day I limped back into town a walking miracle? And what had happened to the ones I’d left behind?
I squeezed my eyes shut, until they burned and enough tears were created to ease them. When I opened my eyes, Detective Walker and Livia were several yards ahead of me and I still stood at the culvert. A last glance at the dog collar and I hurried to catch up to them.
Detective Walker pointed down the road. “So the lake is about half a mile down. We’ll hike to there and that’s where our grid ends.”
Stillwater Lake was an old landmark in these parts. It also was just big enough not to be a pond but also small enough not to sail anything larger than a canoe on it. Tucked in the woods, locals went fishing there from time to time and pulled out crappie and bluegill. It was mostly retired old men who fished there, and boys who were too young to drive themselves to somewhere with better aquatic potential.
The detective’s combat-style boots continued to crunch along the gravel shoulder. Livia hiked alongside of him, her toned legs keeping stride.
“Sophia!” Livia shouted.
I lagged behind. I had to pull myself together. Something aboutStillwater Lake heightened my anxiety, and I could feel it as we approached. The oak trees’ branches met over the road in a canopied arch. Another time, another place, another life, and they would have been beautiful. Reminiscent of a scene right out ofAnne of Green Gables, the one movie I’d watched on repeat growing up. Because I related to Anne. She was an orphan, in the Victorian-era version of foster care. Only she ended up with Matthew and Marilla, and then Gilbert—Mr. Prince Charming.
I shut down my thoughts and caught up to the detective and Livia. We hiked beneath the leaves that rustled in the dusk. I could smell Stillwater Lake. A hint of fish, of algae, of earth . . .
That alone was a memory. Inside of me. The scent of moisture. The oppressive weight of dirt, and the suffocating panic of breathing in earth. Clogging my nostrils, my throat?—
“Noa?”
Livia’s voice broke through my recollection. It was thick with concern.
In a matter of a moment, I had gone from being present with her to crouching on the shoulder of the road. I’d wrapped my arms around my knees and now I buried my face in my knees like a kid.
“I don’t think this was a good idea.” There was condemnation in Livia’s tone as she directed her statement to Detective Walker.
God bless Livia for being so protective of me.
“Noa?”
Detective Walker had crouched next to me, and his use of my name was a gentle demand for my attention.
I gave it to him, only because I was drowning. The world around me was spinning. I could smell it—the dirt—I couldtasteit—and the scent of the lake on the air exacerbated it all.
“Noa, stay with me.” Detective Walker didn’t touch me. It was good he didn’t. I would have turned feral and clawed him if he had. I knew that because I felt cornered. Buried. Trapped.
“It’s me.” The detective reminded, even though I already knew it. “Reuben.”
Reuben.
I’d only ever called him “Detective” or “Ghost” when I felt especially snarky. The use of his first name jerked me out of my stupor.
“S-sorry,” I muttered.
“It’s okay.” Reuben—because he started it and it was a lot easier than “detective”—assured me. “Can you tell us what happened?”
I looked past him to Livia. Her dark eyes were intent and she gave me a short shake of her head. “You don’t have to answer that,” she stated.
I wanted to. I didn’t want to. But I did.
“I’ll be fine.” I pushed to my feet and Reuben was quick to follow. “I just—needed to breathe for a second.” And forget that I’d once been buried alive.
