Page 187 of Secrets Along the Shore
I wanted to shake him. Demand more. A name. A year. Something I could verify. But he looked uncomfortable even saying what little he had.
“So, you’ll come by?” I asked, voice tight in my throat.
He nodded. “I said I’d try. I’ll do my best.”
“Tomorrow morning?”
He frowned and sighed before nodding. “Fine. Sure. I’ll be there. Don’t get your hopes up, though. I’m not sure anyone will want to buy that place. Not if they’ve heard the stories.”
I gave him a long look. “I don’t believe the stories.”
He smiled faintly. “Most people say that—until they do.”
I left before I could ask anything else.
Outside, the wind had picked up. The air had that strange tension to it, the kind that comes before a storm—when the sky holds its breathand the clouds lower just enough to make you feel watched. Maybe Mr. Monroe’s knees were prophetic, and they were right about the rain intruding soon.
Back in the SUV, I gripped the wheel harder than necessary.
A child had died.
Someone beside Becca’s little sisterdied.
Was that what I’d seen? Was that why the dreams kept coming, the same image over and over—the girl running down the stairs in the pink nightgown, vanishing at the landing?
Was that even Becca’s sister? Or was I dreaming about another child who stayed at the lodge with me?
Was it even a memory? Or had someone else’s whispered rumors seeded themselves in my head so long ago that now I believed them mine?
And why couldn’t I remember Becca’s sister’s name?
Why couldno oneremember her by name? So far, she was only known as the Bishop girl to the people I spoke to. It was as though everyone had chosen to forget her for some reason.
As I turned the SUV around and headed back toward the lodge, a single thought burned in my mind. Maybe Scanlon left me his lodge to change that. Maybe what I really came back for…was the truth.
CHAPTER
THREE
Early morning lightpoured through the tall lodge windows like spilled milk, soft and pale against the worn wooden floor. I’d barely slept, tossing on the couch under an old quilt, unnerved by shadows and fragments of dreams I couldn’t piece together. Something about the water. Something about eyes watching from across the lake. Was Becca watching for me as much as I was watching for her?
The power was back on thanks to Monroe, though his attitude hadn’t warmed. He’d left last night without another word after fiddling with the breaker box and muttering about “old bones not liking cold basements.” Although maybe I misunderstood his actual words. I hadn’t bothered asking him about Becca’s sister again. He was a dead end, anyway. If he knew, he wasn’t talking about anything important. Besides, when I accompanied him to the basement again, the compulsion to look around pulled at me and piqued my curiosity.
There were boxes everywhere. Storage trunks, rusted tools, things long tucked away by Scanlon and covered with dust. But what I hadn’t expected to find was the boat.
I headed outside with my eyes on the rowboat that once had given me my summer friends.
In the basement, it had been tucked behind an old armoire and some dry-rotted tarps. The faded green rowboat with one side streaked with old algae stains and the other crusted with spiderwebs had beenwedged tight. The oars, long wooden paddles with chipped red tips, were inside it. I pulled the craft free, and it was just as I remembered. I didn’t even have to think about it. My body moved on instinct, hands brushing away cobwebs, feet pushing against the slick concrete floor as I removed the boat from the house and dragged it up the narrow path that wound from the lodge to the lakeshore. It wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t as hard as it would’ve been in my youth. The path was still etched into the land, still familiar. My bare feet pressed into the cold dirt, toes curling over pebbles and twigs. I’d kicked off my shoes at the top of the trail, knowing exactly where I was going.
To the dock.
It was like I was ten again, not thirty, and my friends awaited me.
Now with the sun shining, I reached the water, and the lake stretched out before me like a sheet of glass, only the smallest ripples disrupting the stillness. The mountains yawned in the distance, their tips kissed by a big lavender sky.
It was August, but the lake was still cold.
I stepped into the water and winced, breath catching as the chill shot up my calves. The old me would’ve shrieked and giggled. The current me clenched her jaw and pushed through.
