Beach Thriller(14)

“Juvenile detention taught you how to get into more trouble?”

“Ironic, I know.”

She raises an eyebrow. “A criminal who can properly use irony. Impressive.”

But she’s not impressed. Her arms are folded across her chest; her foot tapping a swift beat against the floor.

“We were putting all that behind us when—when the accident happened.”

Even though I shut my eyes tight, a salty tear leaks out.

“I am so sorry,” the woman says, braving a step toward me. This person, who was ready to wallop me with her broom moments ago, looks like she wants to pull me into a hug.

I take a step back, and she gets the message.

“I don’t understand—why did you run away? If your parents are both gone, who did you run from?”

“I’m not eighteen,” I tell her. “So I had to go live with my aunt. She’s a tyrant—emotionally and verbally abusive. She has three kids, and they’re all messed up, just as mean as she is.”

She nods, compassion in her eyes. “My name is Holly,” she says, extending her hand. “Holly Sinclair.”

My face lights up. “Are you the writer?”

Holly does a double take. “You’ve read my books?” She sounds astonished.

“Oh, you have more than one? I only read what I found up here in loose pages.”

The color vanishes from her cheeks. Her hand flies to her mouth. “Are you telling me that you’ve read—?”

I finish the thought. “Yeah, I read Beach Thriller, by Holly Sinclair. I found it in a box in the corner. It looked interesting, and I had nothing better to do. I love to read. It’s a really good book. Like, it felt super realistic, even though the title makes it sound like a mystery.”

Something tells me I’ve struck a nerve.

“It’s pure fiction.” Holly’s tone is brusque. “Just a story I made up when I was young and didn’t have much writing experience.”

“Did you ever finish it? I want to know what happens to Anna. And does Conrad leave that nasty ho, Elizabeth, for her? I feel like Anna’s getting herself into a lot of trouble. Am I right? It’s so good, but—”

I see daggers in Holly’s eyes.

“But what?” Holly wants to know. “Are you a squatter and a book critic?”

I clear my throat. “It’s just that you’re a character in your own novel … and it doesn’t quite read like fiction. And I read a lot of fiction. These characters feel too real—like autobiographical, or a memoir.”

A curtain comes down over Holly’s face, veiling her emotions. I can’t tell if I’ve given her a great compliment or majorly pissed her off.

“Could I see the book, please?” she asks in a low voice.

I go to the little nest I’ve constructed out of old clothes and some ratty, yellowing pillows. I dig around and find the dilapidated box holding the book.

“Here you go,” I say. “I just want to know how it ends.”

“Me too,” says Holly, her voice distant and sad. “Why don’t you come downstairs? You can take a shower. I’ll make you something to eat.”





Chapter 10

Holly




Dinner for Jade would be boxed mac and cheese along with an apple, sourced from Holly’s meager food stash. It wasn’t the most well-rounded meal, but as Holly’s mother would say to her picky-eater daughters back in the day, You get what you get, and you don’t get upset.

The old-fashioned metal teakettle whistled on the stovetop. Bottled water (until the tap got fixed) bubbled inside. Underneath it, the oven groaned, making alarming noises as it heated up their late-night meal. It was sad that Holly’s big dream had been reduced from literary glory to one day owning a stove that wasn’t teetering on the edge of extinction. But you get what you get …

As Jade showered, Holly focused on the sound of hot water flowing through the old, jangly pipes. She found the noise oddly comforting. It was a sign that someone else was in the house, a reminder of the old days when her family was ever-present, the shower always ran, and the sounds of daily life filled the air like the low buzz of a white-noise machine, noticeable only in its absence.

The house felt alive again—all thanks to a stranger, a troubled kid whose safety and well-being Holly couldn’t guarantee, especially when she could barely take care of herself. Besides, could she even trust this girl? Holly had read enough novels with unreliable narrators to question Jade’s telling of events. But whatever the story, the girl’s painful emotions felt sincere, and she seemed to have nowhere else to go.

Was she really going to let her bleeding heart get her into even more difficulties? Jade might have been in lockup, but Holly didn’t feel threatened by her presence. She was five-two at most, barely over a hundred pounds, and was a bedraggled, rumpled mess—like a dirty shirt pulled from the bottom of the hamper.

Jade’s alluring onyx eyes had managed to turn a shade darker when Holly shared her intention to call the police—not to press charges, but to get the girl some help.

“You can’t do that,” Jade pleaded. “They’ll get in touch with my aunt. I can’t go back. I—I have to stay here.” Her voice was sharp, even panicky.