Beach Thriller(9)

“Right—yeah,” Dan stuttered. “Well, at least it’s selling. Look, Holly, you’re a brilliant writer. But if it’s money you need, you may want to broaden your horizons. Next summer, imagine everyone reading Holly Sinclair’s first-ever romance or mystery or thriller. Those sell like hotcakes … not that I’ve ever actually bought a hotcake, but the point stands. It could be your ticket out of trouble.”

Holly winced as she recalled her first attempt at writing a novel like that, a book she’d started the summer she turned twenty-two. It had all the ingredients Dan told her to include—love, betrayal, revenge, and deadly secrets. She couldn’t think of anything more cringe-inducing than rereading those words from her younger days. But even worse was facing the real reason she had stopped writing that story in the first place.

Holly inhaled the incense that filled the room, returning to the moment and to Serena’s question: What are you working on? Like Holly had never heard that one before. The only inquiry more common at a book talk was: Where do you get your ideas? Yawn.

“Maybe I should write about hearing ghosts,” Holly said, sheepishly sharing her wake-up call the night before. Although she was certain that the source of the noise she’d heard had a pulse, it was a good segue out of the writing business.

Serena’s eyes brightened. “It’s probably Anna. Let me come over. I’ll do a reading. No charge at all.” She was practically begging. “Consider it a welcome-back-to-the-neighborhood gift.”

Free anything was Holly’s catnip, and her pragmatic side kicked in like a reflex. The exterminator she’d called would charge 150 bucks, regardless of whether they found a critter. Holly feared encountering something up there with sharp teeth and beady red eyes. Having Serena beside her would make exploring the attic a little less frightening. Besides, it would be nice to have company.

She accepted the offer with gratitude.

“Wonderful,” Serena said. “I’ll see you tonight at eight. And you can tell me all about your exciting life as a published author!”





Chapter 6

The Watcher




I’ve been following you for hours. I saw you as you walked the beach and strolled the boardwalk. Why are you back here after all this time?

Honestly, I can’t believe you dared return. Brave, brave girl. But how brave are you? Are you daring enough to dig up the past? Is that what you’ve come here to do? If so, you might be bold, but you’re also foolish.

I watch you take it all in, exploring your old stomping grounds, a place that’s seeped into your soul the way the tide fills the salt marsh. You act like a kid at a carnival, awed by the deluge of colors, all the sights and smells, a symphony of sounds that lulls you into a false sense of security.

This place—so familiar—must also feel foreign. How long has it been? I suppose that’s not as important as what brought you here. Perhaps it was inevitable. Like a moth drawn to a flame, you’ve been lured back to where it all started—or ended, depending on whose perspective you take.

But what do you actually know? That’s what troubles me the most. This town may be small, but it holds many dark secrets. And I am one of them. I’m invisible to you, just one in the crowd. I’m everywhere and nowhere. I could be hiding in plain sight or lurking in the shadows. Wherever you are, I’ll be there, around each corner, down every street, outside your house at night while you’re sleeping. You won’t know where I am. You won’t realize how much danger you’re in.

I watch you linger by the shops on the boardwalk. You seem so uncertain—your hands are fidgety, your steps tentative. Are you scared? You should be.

It’s my mission to prevent you from discovering things you shouldn’t. You are a writer, after all. Have you come here chasing a story, or will one fall into your lap?

Either way, be careful what you wish for.





Chapter 7

Holly




Serena was punctual, knocking on Holly’s front door at precisely eight o’clock. She carried a black bag that reminded Holly of a doctor making house calls. Hopefully, her guest wasn’t hungry. Holly had gone to the store for some provisions—coffee, cream, a little fruit, some greens, and a few frozen dinners, which were a lot cheaper than DoorDash, but the contents of her fridge still looked sparse. She had checked her bank balance, and the annoying busker certainly wouldn’t be getting any more of her dollars. It was a good thing Serena insisted on providing her services free of charge.

Holly wasn’t sure how to dress for the occasion. Was there special attire for connecting with the supernatural? Maybe feathers, beads, or a headscarf? She thought about flowing silk wraps or a fringed shawl—something that felt spiritual—but opted for the tried-and-true: jeans and a lightweight sweater.

Serena wore leggings and an oversize linen button-down top. She presented Holly with a bottle of wine and a gracious smile. “I used to buy plants as housewarming gifts, but then people felt guilty if they died. Hope you like cabernet.”

Holly seldom drank, but when she did, she preferred something red. “It’s perfect, thank you. Would you like a glass?”

“No thanks. I actually don’t drink. Messes with my tool kit.” Serena pointed to her head. Her hair was wavy and wild.