Page 12 of Secrets Along the Shore (Beach Read Thrillers #1)

No. I liked my idea better. It was more palatable. A killer with regrets. That the abductor might be manipulated with goodwill and obedience. But another side of me knew I couldn’t believe a theory as fact just because it was easier to swallow. Reuben could be just as right as I was.

“Fact of the matter is,” Dickson concluded with conviction, “this just underlines one element no one can argue with me about.”

“What’s that?” Reuben raised his brows.

Dickson scooped the photographs into a pile.

“I hate snakes. No matter how you position them.”

It seemed wrong to go to work. It felt disrespectful to engage in the routine of life when Sophia’s body lay in the morgue, her death unsolved. I knew that Reuben and Dickson and the entire force were putting all their efforts into solving her murder, but it didn’t make me feel any better.

The tap tap tap of Elsie’s computer keyboard sounded in my ears as I sat frozen in my desk chair staring at my monitor.

The chickens were quiet in their clucking today.

Lisa was on the show floor talking about gas fireplaces to customers in the middle of a new home build.

I don’t know where the other two were, but probably somewhere gossiping while they pretended to work.

So here I sat. Contemplating snakes, murder, and crime scenes, and battling between my desire to pull back inside of myself and tune it all out, or continuing on my current trajectory.

I reached for my coffee thermos and took a sip, remembering early in the morning when I’d stopped at the coffee shop to fill it on the way to work.

“It’s not your responsibility.” Livia had tried to encourage me this morning when I’d stopped by the coffee shop on my way to work. “You’ve been through enough, Noa, you don’t have any obligation to place yourself back into the middle of an investigation that has nothing to do with you.”

“Reuben thinks it does.” I’d taken a sip of coffee and burned my tongue.

“Reuben thinks everything is related to your case.” Livia had given me another one of her brutally honest but super kind, chocolate-eyed stares. She had more than proven her friendship to me, and I was grateful for it. Even now, when she wasn’t beside me, Livia was unknowingly helping me refocus.

Now, I repositioned my thermos back on the desk and determined to pay attention to my job. I studied the scheduling program, trying to fathom why Mr. Archer had his office ladies scheduling the installers job sites when we had literally no idea how long each project took.

But such was the case. And somehow—big surprise—the job of scheduling landed in my lap because I had the gumption to actually ask the guys their opinion on the matter.

Like now. Someone—probably Lisa—had scheduled the same crew to install a fireplace and air conditioning unit on the same day in two separate counties.

I shoved away the constant nagging awareness of Sophia’s murder only forty-eight hours ago, and I snatched the two job orders and hiked my way to the warehouse.

If I was lucky, one of the crew chiefs would be there and could settle once and for all if those two jobs could actually be completed in a day.

I wasn’t prepared for the sweltering heat that assaulted my face and even less so for the warehouse to be so empty.

My tennis shoes didn’t make a sound on the concrete floor as I maneuvered down the aisles stocked floor to ceiling with boxes of single-, double-, and triple- wall stovepipe.

One aisle alone had pallets with air conditioning units on them, and the shelves above them had piping and who knew what else that was necessary for installing one of those beasts.

I’d thought I’d at least run into Alan, the warehouse manager. He was a nice guy in his forties, divorced, quiet, and a hard worker. So it was unusual for him not to be around.

“Alan?” My voice echoed off the metal rafters.

He had probably gone out back for a smoke.

The guys did that as often as they took coffee breaks and bathroom breaks.

I made my way to the back entrance, the door was slightly ajar.

I’d planned to open it fully and step through, but voices stopped me.

No. Honestly? It was my curiosity that stopped me.

Because one of the voices I didn’t recognize.

“Seriously, man. You didn’t do anything wrong,” Alan said.

“I’ve got no alibi.” The unknown voice perked my ears.

I stood frozen at the door, clutching the job orders in my hand.

“Listen. Don’t panic. You’ve got nothing to hide.”

“They’ve got me under a microscope. I just spent the last six hours being interrogated!”

I sagged against the warehouse wall, its metal cool against my shoulder.

This had to be about Sophia’s murder. Reuben hadn’t told me of any suspects in the case, but apparently, they had at least one. It wouldn’t surprise me if it was Dereck, Sophia’s boyfriend.

“Did you get a lawyer?” Alan pressed.

“Why do I need a lawyer? I’m not guilty of anything!” Desperation saturated the other man’s voice.

“Always get a lawyer,” Alan said.

He wasn’t wrong. Every TV crime show taught you that.

“I can’t afford a lawyer. And if I get a lawyer then I look guilty!”

“No, you look smart!” I heard what sounded like a thwack of a hand against a solid object—or one guy casually slugging another guy’s arm. “Dereck, think about it. Think it through, man.”

Dereck. I was right.

“If you didn’t do anything, then you want to make sure you’re not coerced into a confession. ”

“Coerced? The cops don’t do that.”

“Oh really?” Alan challenged.

“I mean?—”

“They want to get someone for the murder, and they always blame the boyfriend. Nine times out of ten, it’s the significant other that does the time.”

I wasn’t sure Alan’s statistics were right. But still. A gnawing feeling chewed at my gut. If Dereck was telling the truth, this wasn’t a crime of passion. But six hours? That seemed like a long interrogation unless they had some evidence that really put a spotlight on Dereck.

Alan and Dereck’s voices had faded. I peered through the crack in the open door. They walked toward dumpsters, cigarettes in hand.

Turning away, I opted not to follow to inquire about installations and crews and the semantics of job site scheduling. Instead, I wandered toward the offices.

Without police present, Dereck had little reason to lie. So if not a jealous or volatile boyfriend, then who? And what motive? And there were still two other missing women. One would have to argue if Dereck wasn’t behind Sophia’s murder, then why would he be guilty of the other disappearances?

Frustrated, confused, and not a little turned around in my head, I hurried back the way I’d come.

I wasn’t equipped to handle anyone else’s traumatic story when I couldn’t even remember my own.

But as I took quick steps to hustle out of the warehouse, my shoulder brushing boxes on the shelves, I saw Sophia across the warehouse, staring at me.

Go away , I wanted to cry out.

She was merely a figment of my imagination and yet, I couldn’t be at peace. She couldn’t be at peace. Not until we knew what had happened.

But why was I the one who had to bear that responsibility?

Had to ? That was probably my own self-inflicted guilt.

Yes. There it was.

Guilt.

Tears burned my eyes and I sprinted the rest of the way out of the warehouse.

I shouldn’t even be here. I shouldn’t have a job scheduling hulking blue collar guys on job sites, or selling a woodstove to a trusting couple who thought I knew what the heck I was talking about!

I shouldn’t be arguing with myself. I shouldn’t be mad at myself for not remembering, for blocking out vital elements of my trauma that would save the ones I’d left behind.

Or would have saved them. I shouldn’t have lived .

And there lay the crux of the matter. The reason Sophia’s death broke down barriers I’d guarded for years now. Here she was. Another young victim. And whether related to my case or not, she was another young woman who should still be alive.

I barely made it outside of the warehouse before I crumpled to the earth. I clapped my hands over my ears but I could still hear them.

The screams.

No! Please. No.

The dank smell of the dark room.

A cold hand that came out of nowhere and grabbed hold of my own, squeezing my fingers in a death grip.

Death grip. Yes. If we held on to each other, we would be safe.

That was the illusion of the comfort of human touch.

Even infants thought in their mother’s arms they were safe.

That being held meant being shielded from harm.

I remembered her fingers, clawing my arm as we were ripped apart. The room was so dark. Only figures. Shadows.

She screamed.

I screamed.

She died.

I lived.

Maybe the dice had been rolled and I was simply the lucky one. But there were others. I could hear them. Breathing. In the darkness. Afraid to cry out for fear they’d be next.

All I knew, was that my hand was empty now. No one held it. And I would never be safe. Ever.