Page 108 of Secrets Along the Shore (Beach Read Thrillers #1)

CHAPTER

FOURTEEN

The stairs scraped beneath me, splintering my hands with each slow crawl.

I knew each step was a slow betrayal of my presence, but I still held my breath and tried to remember how to move soundlessly, like I had as a child sneaking through the dormitories.

I couldn’t hear the noise I made—my deafness more cruel now than ever—but I imagined every brush of fabric, every shift of weight on old wood, reverberating like thunder.

I reached the top of the stairs and crouched low in the kitchen, scanning the shadows for movement.

Slight moonlight filtered through the curtains, fractured and faint.

I crawled across the floor, my knees pressing into the worn linoleum, inching toward the back door.

Every instinct in me screamed to run, to bolt through the door, but I couldn’t risk it.

The knob turned easily in my grip. I pushed the door open, wincing as it swung inward. Cool night air greeted me, brushing against my sweat-slicked skin like a warning. I slipped onto the back deck, then darted toward the stairs that led to the yard below.

But I froze at the top.

A figure stood near my car. A silhouette framed in moonlight. Broad shoulders. Still. Waiting and stopping me from going anywhere.

I shrank back into the shadows of the porch. My throat swelled, and I knew I couldn’t squeak out a sound. There was no way to the car, no way past them. My breath came shallow, the air burning my lungs. I looked around for another option.

The lake.

I could see it beyond the trees, still and black beneath the stars. A sliver moon shimmered across its surface, just enough light to guide me. My rowboat was still tied to the dock. If I could reach it…

I didn’t give myself time to doubt. I sprinted across the deck, leaped the stairs two at a time, and bolted into the dark yard.

The grass was slick with dew, causing my shoes to slip and nearly taking me down.

Branches scratched at my arms as I cut through the bushes, and twigs broke beneath my soles.

At the dock, I didn’t slow. I plunged into the water with a splash that soaked me through.

Too loud, I knew, but it couldn’t be helped.

I heard nothing, but I knew whoever was near the car had heard it. I gripped the dock and heaved myself into the boat. The rope around the cleat was knotted tight. My fingers trembled as I worked at it, the damp fibers refusing to give.

Please, please ?—

The rope finally slipped free. I pushed off hard. The boat drifting away from the dock just as a figure burst from the trees behind me.

I didn’t stop to look. I grabbed the oars and rowed, my muscles burning with each stroke. The boat rocked violently under my weight, water filling the boat as I haphazardly carved through the dark.

Don’t look back. Just move.

The shoreline receded behind me. The lodge became a dim shape swallowed by trees. Only then did I glance over my shoulder.

The figure stood on the dock, watching.

I kept rowing, breath hitching. The house grew smaller in the distance. Relief crept in.

Then I faced forward and saw movement in the water ahead.

Another boat.

Cutting across the surface, low and fast, coming from the opposite direction. From the other side of the lake. No light. No sound. Just a small, dark craft slicing toward me. The Bishop house sat beyond it, but my eyes locked on the boat. Someone else was coming toward me .

I turned the rowboat, trying to angle away, but rowing alone was slow, the boat heavy. My arms ached, shoulders burning. The second boat moved fast, gaining ground.

Panic surged. I had nowhere to go. No help. No weapon. No knife. It was gone.

Only water and night.

The rowboat rocked as I tried to shift my course again. The other boat grew closer, its silhouette solid now. A figure inside. One person. No light.

I gritted my teeth and kept rowing, heading toward the middle of the lake. Maybe I could lose them in the fog or reach the inlet near the jetty. Maybe I could…

I saw the person in the boat rise, lift something…

Then a flash followed. A flashlight, blinding and direct. Shining right at me.

I shielded my eyes, twisting away.

I didn’t stop to think. I rowed harder, desperate to stay ahead, to reach the inlet and disappear into the trees.

And then the person flashed their light three times.

My breath hitched.

Three flashes.

Our code to come over.

The other boat drifted toward me, slow and steady, slicing across the moonlit water. I watched as a flashlight once again blinked three times from its bow—one, two, three—then nothing.

Was it Becca? It had to be. That was our signal when we were kids, when we’d row across the lake to share secrets. One flash meant “don’t come tonight.” Two meant “meet me halfway.” Three meant “come over.”

Would Becca remember that?

I stared at the boat. It drifted closer now, too far for me to make out a face, but near enough that I could see the silhouette of the figure holding the light.

It could be her.

Or it could be someone else, someone who knew about our code.

I hesitated, my oars floating idle in the water. The lodge behind me was no longer an option. A body under my stairs, the fuse box deliberately destroyed, and a shadowed figure still standing on shore—waiting. Watching. I’d escaped once. I might not get another chance.

So I rowed away.

Away from the second boat. Away from the figure on the dock.

But every pull of the oars sent me further into the open water, more exposed, more vulnerable. Panic clawed its way up my throat.

And then…

I wasn’t on this lake anymore.

I was fifteen again.

It was the Fourth of July.

Fireworks burst above in the sky, red and gold sparkling across the sky, their reflections dancing on the lake. The air smelled of smoke and lake water and summer. I was out in this very rowboat, halfway between the Bishop house and the lodge.

But that night, Livvie came alone, and she wasn’t smiling.

She was crying.

I could barely make her out as her little boat drifted closer. I flashed my light twice—meet me halfway. But she shook her head.

I remember the fear in her eyes. I tried to read her lips in the dark. She had no flashlight.

“Becca took my flashlight.”

I frowned and signed, “What? Why?”

“I don’t want you to come over,” she signed, hands trembling.

“Why not?” I mouthed. “What’s wrong?”

She pointed back to the Bishop house. Something there. Someone.

I could see it on her face—terror. Whatever it was, she was too afraid to say. She didn’t want me to see. Didn’t want me to come. But I gave her my flashlight to get back safely, holding it out across the dark water and letting her take it.

Then I turned my boat around and rowed home alone.

That was the last time I saw Livvie alive.

Her body was found the next day, floating in the middle of the lake. They said she slipped. Drowned.

But I always wondered .

And now, here I was, in the same place, the same water, only this time, I was the one trying to decide where to go.

The boat ahead flashed the code once more.

Come over.

I stared, hands tightening around the oars.

Livvie had tried to warn me. That something on that shore wasn’t safe.

Was it safe now?

The stars above twinkled faintly, barely enough to see. But I saw the shape of the Bishop house against the tree line, dark and looming.

If I rowed there now, I might finally understand what Livvie was trying to say. What she was trying to stop me from discovering back then.

Or I might die trying.

The other boat was drifting closer now, as if whoever was in it was waiting for me to make up my mind.

I closed my eyes. Livvie died trying to protect me. Maybe now it was time to find out why.

I turned my boat. I rowed toward the Bishop house, first slowly then picking up the pace.

The breeze sharpened. My muscles ached with every pull, but I didn’t stop. I kept the silhouette of the other boat dead ahead and rowed to it, peering into the glare to try to make out the person holding the light.

I approached with trembling hands as the two boats bumped against the other.

It was Becca.

The woman stared across the water as if I wasn’t in the boat beside her.

“Is it him?” she asked.

I looked over my shoulder at the man still there, waiting for my return, telling me he would be going nowhere.

“I don’t know who it is. I didn’t get a good look. But there’s a dead man in my basement. I can’t go back.”

Becca stared at me as though she didn’t comprehend my words.

“Becca? Did you hear me? I need to call the sheriff.”

Becca gave one nod and said, “Come over.”