Beach Thriller(15)
“And why here?” Holly asked.
“Like I told you, there weren’t a lot of abandoned houses to choose from.” Jade punctuated the obvious with a crooked smile.
“No, I mean why come to Beauport at all?” Holly clarified. “It’s a long way from Pennsylvania.”
Jade hesitated long enough for Holly to wonder if she was crafting a lie. “I love the ocean,” she said, her voice softening. “Always have. I wanted to hide at the beach until I turn eighteen in a couple of months. Then my aunt won’t be able to control me anymore. After that, I’ll figure out what I’m going to do with the rest of my life.”
Holly didn’t need to be a seasoned detective to know Jade wasn’t telling the whole story. But for now she had a decision to make. Was she really going to let this drifter—an intruder and a minor, no less—spend the night?
Her conscience told her to help. The girl was vulnerable and in need of guidance. Besides, it was getting late. Where would she go if Holly turned her away?
Maybe call Shae? Holly mulled over what she would say. “Hey, love, found a lost girl in my attic. A runaway. She’s unarmed, a squatter, been in juvenile detention—but she’s orphaned, poor thing, with an abusive aunt. It’s basically a modern Dickens story. Should I let her stay?”
Holly could already hear Shae’s response: “Are you f’ing crazy? You’re going to let a stranger from juvie live in your house? Is the sea air affecting your common sense? Let the police sort this out. Her problems aren’t yours to solve.”
Right. They weren’t, Holly reminded herself. Who was she to decide what was in this young woman’s best interest?
As her thoughts tumbled, Holly reached for the box of loose pages she had brought down from the attic. Jade’s enthusiasm stirred something inside her. Maybe she should take a peek at what she had written all those years ago … but as soon as the thought surfaced, a warning followed: You stopped writing it for a reason. You don’t want to revisit that story. Not now. Not ever.
And then Dan’s voice echoed in her head: Write something that sells.
Could Beach Thriller be it? Was she meant to finish this book? Was this a sign from Anna?
Jade had been so excited about the characters and the story—and young readers sell books these days. What a story for TikTok! Runaway finds a lost manuscript and inspires a broken writer to tell the story she couldn’t bring herself to finish years ago. It becomes a bestseller, Netflix catches wind, and soon Nicole Kidman is attached to the project.
Holly’s hands trembled as she lifted the lid on the old corrugated box. It felt as if she had cracked open a tomb. The title page leered at her like a taunt.
She braced herself for what she had to do. How could she expect to live in Beauport and face the ghost of her sister if she couldn’t even revisit a novella she had written ages ago?
With a deep breath, Holly reached for page 1, unsure of what she would find.
Beach Thriller
i
Will they all live happily ever after?
That’s the fairy-tale ending we all dream about. True love’s kiss. Rags to riches. Discovering we’re a lost queen.
What a load of crap.
In real life, the frog doesn’t turn into a prince. He becomes a cheating scoundrel who breaks your heart after he steals your money. The wolf always eats the girl. The young woman, trapped in servitude, remains forever impoverished and despairing.
Which brings us to young, dedicated Anna. She’s beautiful; of course she is. You can’t have a fairy tale without a captivating princess. But Anna isn’t royalty—she’s humble, kindhearted, and has a simple dream of becoming a teacher. Hopefully, her fairy godmother will grant her a reasonable cost-of-living increase.
But tonight, money surrounds Anna. It’s summertime by the ocean, early June, a lovely night for a party. Floodlights slice through the dark, illuminating a turreted stone manor nestled behind a thick wrought-iron gate. The home is perched on a tall, craggy cliff overlooking the awe-inspiring Atlantic Ocean. The properties in this part of town are all high-end homes, but none compare to the one called Miramar. The Spanish name, prominently displayed on a plaque bored into a gatepost, translates poetically to “Watcher of the Sea.”
The roof is steeply pitched and dotted with tall chimneys that from a distance look like stone fingers reaching up to scrape the sky. The windows carved into the stone facade give the impression of dark eyes keeping watch over the meticulously manicured grounds.
In the center of the circular driveway, a resplendent fountain bubbles. Bronze figures of a man and woman in flowing robes tilt pitchers, pouring water into a pool that is as clear as a mountain stream.
Fairy lights twinkle in the ancient trees surrounding the path to the beach, forming a magical canopy, guiding guests to the shoreline below.
The partygoers are dressed in bright summer fabrics: a mix of floral-patterned midi and maxi dresses for the women, creating a bouquet of color under the party tent. The men must have received a similar dress code. They’re wearing madras shorts and button-down linen tops, looking very casual cool.
The entire party is an ode to the ocean—at least that’s what the hostess would like everyone to believe—but in reality, the guests are paying homage to her. And there’s a twist. Instead of the ankle-breaking heels and Italian leather shoes expected at most high-end parties, the crowd is dancing barefoot on the white sands of Maeve Carmichael’s private beach. In place of a coat check, Maeve offers a shoe check, which ensures the mandatory No Footwear Allowed rule is followed by all.