Page 21 of Secrets Along the Shore (Beach Read Thrillers #1)

I had work to do, I just wasn’t in the mindset to do any of it.

The customer database was still open on my computer and on a whim, I typed in Reuben’s name.

When he didn’t pop up as a customer of Archer’s Heating and Cooling, I wasn’t surprised.

I was pretty sure that Reuben would be the type of guy who didn’t only solve crimes but also solved his own home repairs.

I reached for a work order and hesitated, my hand hovering over the papers on my desk.

Well, there was a thought! I could search the customers in our database, and what if—I repositioned my fingers over my keyboard.

I typed in Lilian Thomas’ name. A grandmotherly sort wouldn’t be maintaining her own HVAC, and while Archer’s Heating and Cooling wasn’t the only provider in town, my curiosity was piqued.

I didn’t even have a good reason. I was just . . . curious.

Lilian’s name blinked at the top of my computer and a list generated below it, with a full record of times we’d sent men to her home.

Based on the entries, she had a gas fireplace that received regular maintenance, an air conditioner installed five years ago, and air filter replacements on her furnace as recent as last fall.

An unnerving sensation rippled through me.

It was unnerving the small way people’s lives intersected without even realizing it.

I typed in Rosalie’s name.

Her records popped onto my screen.

I shivered, and this time, it wasn’t because of the air conditioning. How many other businesses in town had offered services to both women—and potentially Sophia’s home too? Was it possible that a tie that minute would provide answers?

As quick as I could type, I filled in Sophia’s parent’s names to see if their house came up.

If it had, I would have reached for my phone immediately to text Reuben.

But it didn’t. There was no record of anyone at Archer’s ever being at Sophia’s home.

I had to admit, that was a relief. If all three had come up in our database, it’d hit a little too close to home.

“What are you looking at?”

I jumped, my elbow knocking my water bottle. Water pumped out of the plastic straw. I scrambled for it as Lisa grabbed tissues from a box and tried to mop up the spill.

“I’m so sorry!” she prattled. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s ok.” I bit my tongue and lifted the sopping wet work orders. Lisa—and everyone else in the company—knew better than to sneak up on me.

I dropped the dripping pages back on my desk. “I’ll get some paper towels. Don’t worry about it.” I managed to offer Lisa a friendly smile and she returned it with a such a forlorn one that I actually felt at fault for the entire event.

But once I was in the break room, searching for paper towels, I couldn’t stop thinking about the small connection between Archer’s Heating and Cooling, Lilian, and Rosalie.

Had the police considered a connection between them that was created by an outside source?

Something impersonal and vague like servicing a furnace?

Preoccupied by my thoughts, I snatched a roll of towels and returned to my desk. Elsie was there, a towel in her hand that she’d retrieved from who knew where, and she had my entire desk arranged into mismanaged piles as she wiped the last remaining drop away .

“I got ya covered, hon.” Her reedy voice and announcement was meant to encourage me, but instead, I saw an invasion of privacy.

Yes, I knew my desk wasn’t my desk, but I also preferred my space to be respected.

It’d already been drowned by my water and Lisa’s inopportune peppy greeting, and now it was rearranged by an overzealous coworker who’s old-fashioned hearing aids bulged out of her ears and only emphasized how true it was that Elsie was the matriarch of Archer’s Heating and Cooling—not a critical employee.

More hustle ensued as a crew of workman made their way through the office and to an archaic white board filled with magnets.

It was their job calendar—because apparently looking up jobs on the computer in the warehouse took too much talent.

They preferred the traditional way. A kindergarten sticker board.

“Hey Noa!” one of the guys called.

“Hold on.” My reply was sharper than I intended.

Elsie waved me off as I hovered. “Go! I’ve just about got it all cleaned up.”

I plopped the unneeded roll of paper towels on my desk, eyed my screen which was still emblazoned with the search for Sophia’s home address, and went to the help the work crew read a calendar.

Some days were just like that. Dead ends. Dead beats. Dead theories.

By the time I clocked out and waved at Alan at the warehouse across the street, I was ready to go home. To my apartment. I didn’t even want to stay with Livia. I just wanted life to go back to what it had been only a week ago. Carefully manicured and tailored toward privacy.

I slipped into the front seat of my car and glanced in my rearview mirror.

Sophia was there.

Her eyes glassy.

Her face unreadable.

“You’re never going to go away, are you?” I whispered.

She didn’t have to answer. Whether I was seeing her spirit or entertaining an over-sensitive imagination, I already knew what the truth was .

Sophia’s murder had opened a door I couldn’t close again. And the worst part was she was following me home.

“Do you think it’s safe?” Livia drilled me.

I shouldn’t have called her. I should have just texted her that I was heading back to my place. Two nights and no incidents? I wasn’t going to live my life in limbo. I couldn’t.

“I’ll be fine,” I promised. After a brief protest and reluctant agreement, Livia gave in and we ended our call.

Famous last words?

Maybe. But I was glad to be at my apartment if for no other reason than it was quiet.

A little musty, but you couldn’t pay me to open my windows now.

Not after the other night and the conclusion that it was how the intruder must have gotten inside.

I checked the A/C and turned it down two degrees to 70F. That should help cycle the air.

I threw my bag onto the couch and was about to pull back the cover on a microwave dinner when my phone pinged .

Recognize this?

I didn’t know the number, but there was no mistaking the attached picture.

The garden variety snake filled the screen. It was a still shot. A picture most likely snagged off the Internet. But I flung my phone across the counter in an uncontrolled reaction.

My heart pounded, and I counted to ten far too rapidly to have any calming effect.

He’d texted me? He’d texted me ! The killer—the Serpent Killer?

—or Sophia’s killer? The ominous weight of its reality stole my breath.

I whirled for the sink and shoved the faucet on, grabbing a glass—dirty or clean, it didn’t matter—and filled it with cold water.

I drank it. All of it. Downing the water as though it would ease the trembling in my body.

What if he was watching me? Right this moment.

What if he was outside of my apartment and could see me shaking?

I dropped the glass in the sink and it shattered.

But I didn’t care. I sprinted to the nearest windows and dropped the shades, twisting the plastic rod so they closed me in from the outside world.

I sprinted to the rest of the windows in the apartment, checking their locks, tugging on the front door to make sure I’d locked it, and even glancing into the bathroom.

I mean, I’d heard the true crime story of a killer breaking into Chicago apartments by removing the bathroom cabinets and finding by doing so, they had created an entrance into the bathroom in the opposite apartment.

I looked into my bathroom, flicking on the light.

My cabinet was in place. I wasn’t even sure if my bathroom abutted the next apartment’s bathroom, but the idea was so strangely stark in my mind.

The navy-blue shower curtain was open—just as I’d left it the other night—and no one was hiding in the tub.

Thank God.

It’s wild what crashes through a person’s psyche in a time of desperate fear. Maybe it was a way to feel like I exercised some sort of control over the situation. Or maybe it was an avoidance of common sense because common sense told me I was going to be murdered.

It didn’t matter.

I charged back into the kitchen, glancing over my shoulder, feeling eyes on me even though I had proven to myself that I was alone.

My phone light was on, evidence of more activity.

I reached for it as if were a poisonous snake itself. Another text had followed.

Don’t cry. I’m here.

I didn’t even try to interpret the cryptic message. Instead, I swiped it off the screen and fumbled with my phone. Within seconds, I’d dialed Reuben. I probably should’ve dialed 911, but instinct sent me to Reuben.

“Pick up, pick up.” My muttering was met with Reuben’s voicemail .

“Reuben—I got a message on my phone. I think—it’s from Sophia’s killer. Please. I need you to—” What? Needed him to what ? I struggled to find my voice, to find the words, and instead I managed to say, “I’ll come by the station.”

It only made sense.

Leave my apartment—expose myself in the broad wide-open world outside my front door—hope I made it across town—and then take up permanent residence in a jail cell. Because, at the moment, that seemed the safest alternative to dying.