Beach Thriller(3)

Most people would have been embarrassed, but Holly simply felt sad for herself and her poor little house. It had suffered so much in her absence. She had wanted to sell the place her grandfather willed to her mother, but Carol refused. How many disagreements did they endure over it? Too many to count. But now, Holly felt grateful that her mother’s stubbornness was providing her with a roof over her head when she needed it most—assuming, of course, that the roof didn’t come crashing down on her in the middle of the night.

“I’m back, Mom.” Holly spoke to the heavens, a weightiness pressing on her chest. “I hope you and Anna are watching over me. And if you know anybody who can fix the place up, please send them my way.”

She steepled her fingers, even though she didn’t pray. It felt like the appropriate thing to do.

Despite the warm day, a chill sank into Holly’s bones.

Walk right in. It’s just a house. It’s not going to bite, she thought. But it will whisper. It will tell me things I want to forget. Every room will be a reminder of the past. Every creak will feel like a ghost welcoming me back.

Carol had thought the place was haunted, which was understandable. Ghosts were said to appear after traumatic deaths. And Anna hadn’t died of natural causes.

No, Holly’s sister was murdered, right here in Beauport. And all these years later, Holly still blamed herself.





Chapter 3

Holly




Before Holly had a chance to slip her key into the front lock, a gleaming silver Acura, sleek as a fox, pulled into the driveway behind her no-frills Kia. A vaguely familiar woman emerged, but Holly couldn’t place her face. Chester meowed an alert from his carrier on the front stoop.

The unexpected visitor had shoulder-length, wavy, bleach-blond hair and dazzling white teeth, which she flashed in a smile that was more like a bite. Over her right shoulder hung a fluorescent pink purse that screamed young, hip, and now, despite belonging to a woman decidedly in the middle of her middle age. She’d applied her makeup with a moderate lack of discernment. It was evident to Holly, even from a distance, that this woman’s bronzed complexion wasn’t from sun exposure.

“Holly Sinclair,” she called, voice shrill, practically running with a hand extended, her apple-red nails reaching for Holly like claws.

Holly took the woman’s hand because her only other option was to flee. Up close, the air thickened with a floral perfume, reminiscent of air freshener.

“I’m Gail Provost, from Beauport Realty—I heard you were coming to town. I was hoping to catch up.”

Holly realized why she looked familiar. This was the same woman who’d been hounding her for years. Gail Provost sent personalized, hand-addressed letters to Holly’s Brooklyn apartment with the regularity of a supermarket circular—her smiling face stamped on the upper left corner of every correspondence.

Dear Holly:

I’m writing to let you know that the value of your home has increased …

How did this woman know when Holly would arrive? The caretaker, she guessed. He had known when she was coming to town and could have easily tipped Gail off. Everyone in Beauport who wasn’t a tourist was in each other’s business, something Holly knew from experience. She hadn’t even stepped into her house, and already she felt the walls closing in.

“I’m so glad to finally meet you in person,” cooed Gail.

Holly acknowledged her with barely a smile.

“Come, I’ll take your little friend inside.” Before Holly could protest, Gail lifted Chester’s carrier, jostling it and causing the cat to let out a strangled cry. Holly unlocked the front door.

“Oh my goodness, how stunning,” said Gail, trailing Holly into an empty foyer.

Stunning? Holly didn’t know what Gail was seeing. To her, the house looked like the setting of a B-grade horror movie.

The furniture—the tables and chairs, the TV console, a few lamps, all relics from Holly’s youth—was draped in white sheets, like bodies at a crime scene. The curtains had yellowed to a dull mustard color. Ideally, the trust would cover the cost of cleaners, but it would be up to Holly to clear out the cobwebs and dust, making it livable in the meantime.

“It’s only a two-bed, right?” asked Gail, who had plenty of info on a house she’d never set foot inside.

“Yes, but my grandfather slept on the screened-in porch, so it didn’t feel small.”

Holly pulled a sheet off the couch, her breath catching at the sight of the familiar floral pattern. How many afternoons had she and Anna lounged on this ratty old thing? How many meals did they share in front of the TV, exhausted from a day at the beach?

Instinctively, Holly touched her claddagh ring. The sisters had picked out matching rings at a shop on the boardwalk many summers ago, spending all their babysitting money on what felt like an extravagant purchase. Anna had worn her ring every day. Holly still kept hers on in tribute—a reminder that they’d always be connected, if only in memory.

Gail set Chester down in the living room, heading off to inspect the kitchen.

Holly opened the front of the carrier, apologizing for the woman’s brusque handling. Chester was not ready to emerge, his fuzzy gray form cowering inside his crate. Green eyes flashed with reproach. Chester hadn’t asked for any of this.

“The stove still works,” Gail called from the other room. “Only one burner is out.”