Beach Thriller(72)
I’ve been camped out near the garage for hours since I left work at five o’clock. I made a big to-do, loudly saying goodbye to Sid to make sure Conrad heard me leave. I walked all the way to the gate and then carefully stalked back, ducking for cover along the way. Thank God I remembered to store an apple and a soda in my bag.
This sleuthing business is not glamorous. Even after five, the sun is strong, and the air thick and oppressive. That’s summer for you, even by the ocean. I’m hidden behind three trash barrels that are set out for the waste company to pick up in the morning. All I can say is, ewwww. But I do have a clear view of the main house, so I hang tight, waiting and waiting … but for what?
I’m stiff, achy, and have to pee like a motherfucker, but I’m not about to give up. Just when I think my bladder is going to burst, I hear it: music. It’s faint, far away, but I’m sure I’m not imagining it. A side door to the house opens, and Sid emerges. He holds the door open, and what I see next nearly makes me gasp in shock.
Conrad pushes a fragile woman in a wheelchair outside. She’s wrapped in a soft blanket and supported by pillows. It’s difficult to tell her age—she’s so thin it looks like she’s wasting away. However, I can see she’s much younger than Maeve. Who is this stranger? Where did she come from?
Sid closes the door with a quick nod to Conrad, who continues toward the path that hugs the ocean along the bluff. I do my best to creep behind at a safe distance, using the shrubbery to stay out of sight.
The sun hovers above the horizon, turning the sky into deep purples with brushstrokes of orange and red. The image of Conrad and this very sick woman in front of a dramatic backdrop is jarring.
He finally stops, locking the wheelchair in place. He gently—tenderly?—wraps the woman in his arms and lifts her out of the chair. He tries to set her on her feet, allowing her to lean on him for support, but she’s unsteady and too weak to stand. So he cradles her as if she were a child, and together they watch the last drops of daylight seep into the earth, saying a sad farewell.
Chapter 39
Holly
Jade arrived home later than usual, plunking herself on the sofa, looking exhausted. Her eyes were heavy, her shoulders sagging forward. Chester was there for emotional support—for himself, not Jade, but that was a cat for you.
Holly approached with tea for two and an important question for her housemate. She took a seat across from the coffee table and poured hot water into their mugs.
“Jade, I’m not mad, but I’m wondering if you went against my wishes and borrowed Beach Thriller to help with the writing. Did you go into my room and take the pages out of the box?” Her voice rose with a dash of hopefulness.
Jade blinked. “Um, no,” she said, sinking deeper into the couch, arms folded, on the defensive.
Holly bristled. She had to be lying. “Please, Jade, now isn’t the time for games. I need a straight answer.”
Jade looked confused. “I didn’t take anything from you—certainly not your book.”
Her conviction was undeniable, but there was a look in Jade’s eyes—a hint of deception? She may not have taken the book, but Jade was hiding something, Holly had no doubt.
“I don’t understand. It’s missing. What could have happened to it? The pages didn’t get up and walk away on their own.”
Jade leaned forward. She peered at Holly as though she were being dim. “And books don’t often take matches to themselves and write warnings telling you to get out of town.” She fell back against the couch cushion, satisfied, and drank from her mug. “Good tea,” she said, looking pleased with herself.
Holly reared back. She didn’t want to consider this possibility—it was too fraught. Her voice was an anxious whisper. “You think … whoever sent me that book broke in and took my novel?”
Jade raised her eyebrows, tilting her head slightly, basically saying: Come on. Don’t be stupid.
Holly looked around the room as if the intruder might still be hiding in a shadowy corner. “Fuck,” she said, crossing her arms. “That is so damn scary.”
Jade rested her elbows on her knees, fixing Holly with an intense, unwavering stare. “Don’t you see, Holly? We have to get answers, and you have to finish the book. That’s the only way to make any of this stop.”
“It’s gone. That’s the only copy.”
Jade shook off the objection. “The beginning doesn’t matter. You can write that part of your story over and over again if you have to. It’s the end that counts.”
* * *
Holly awoke early from a fitful sleep. For a moment, she wasn’t sure if she was in New York, Beauport, or somewhere else entirely. The dissociation made her feel nearly as unsettled as last night’s dream.
The images were obscured, but the intensity of emotion carried into the morning as Holly poured herself coffee, feeling a rush of cortisol as though she were actively being chased. In her nightmare, she had been. Someone was after her—had been in her home—and Holly had run outside and sped toward the beach, desperate to escape. But the presence—was it even human?—followed her down the path and onto the sand that swallowed her footsteps, making her progress excruciatingly slow.
The edges of her dream were unclear, as if they had a vignette filter. Still, Holly remembered her frantic effort, heart in her throat, as she stumbled toward the water, crashing into the waves, each one getting progressively larger and more powerful until she went under. She tried to swim, but her limbs were heavy and weak. Then she felt someone grasp her ankle, pulling her deeper, until she woke up, gasping for air.