Page 68 of Secrets Along the Shore (Beach Read Thrillers #1)

CHAPTER

TWELVE

Serenity gives me all of Kamden’s personal items—two boxes’ worth—that she had been storing in the basement. A cursory examination of the contents turns up nothing helpful.

After she helps me carry the boxes to my Jeep, I use a spare set of keys to unlock Kamden’s Accord, then poke my head in and take a quick look around.

It’s clean—only a few discarded receipts and empty diet soda cans lie on the floor.

A miniature rubber duck wearing a sunhat and a grass skirt sits on the dash.

Nothing of interest is hiding under the seats, in the glove box, center console, or trunk.

I slam the trunk lid shut and turn to Serenity. “I’ll need a list of everyone who’s used the car and their contact information.”

“Okay.”

“Were the police surprised Kamden left her car behind?”

“I asked them the same question. But then they asked me if she’d ever done it before, and since she had…”

“Right. You said you drove her car. Did you clean the inside? Or run it through a wash?”

Serenity rolls her eyes. “I haven’t even done that with my own car.”

“Did anything in the car suggest where Kamden went last? Or if anyone had been in the car with her?”

“No. ”

“All right, well”—I hold up the keys—“I’m gonna take these with me. Just leave the car alone and someone will be around to collect it.”

At that moment, the front door opens and a child wobbles onto the porch, crying and calling for mommy. Serenity tosses me a weary look, utters a quick, “I gotta go,” then disappears into the house with the child.

I’m walking back to my Jeep, contemplating how Bilbo is a whole lot easier to manage than those kids, when I notice the black Toyota 4Runner parked about six houses down.

It wasn’t there when I pulled in, and though that by itself isn’t strange, the fact that someone is sitting in the driver’s seat is.

Given the distance and the 4Runner’s tinted windshield, I can’t make out any distinct facial features, but it appears to be a male wearing sunglasses and a ball cap.

Whoever he is, he’s looking right in my direction.

Maybe it’s nothing, but the hairs on my arms prickle and a cloud of unease settles on me.

I learned a long time ago to trust my instincts, even if I can’t explain them.

Which means things are about to get interesting.

I drive away from Serenity’s house and roll to a stop at the sign at the end of the street, where—in my rearview mirror—I watch the 4Runner pull away from the curb. I turn right, and when I cruise through the next intersection, I see that the 4Runner is behind me in the distance.

I begin a series of rights and lefts that will lead me back to the main thoroughfare.

When the road crests a sharp hill, I slow on the decline until I’ve decelerated to a crawl.

I’m about twenty feet from the stop sign when the 4Runner bursts over the rise, going much faster than I am.

A squeal of brakes screeches through the air as the SUV lurches to a stop.

Though he avoids hitting me, he ends up right on my bumper.

We both continue on, driving the rest of the way to the stop sign.

That’s when I get out.

Phone in hand, I wave at the driver as I approach his door, walking alongside his hood. He's dark-haired, has a scruffy beard, and is wearing a white Braves ball cap and aviator sunglasses. I can tell by the pinched look on his face that he has no idea how to handle this.

Not to worry. I can help you out.

I motion for him to roll the window down, and he does. The odor of stale cigarettes and greasy takeout burgers smacks me in the face.

“Um, yeah?” he says.

“Hey, I’m sorry to stop you like this”—I offer a friendly smile and a silly shrug—“but my phone doesn’t have service.

” I hold it up to show him my screen and the blank space where the reception bars should be.

“I don’t know where I am, and I need to get back to the main road.

I don’t suppose you could give me directions out of here? It’s like a maze.”

I allow the silence to stretch between us, and finally, he reaches for his phone. When he brings it close, I can see the screen. A map is already showing.

“Yeah, sure. Let me see…”

Fun fact number one: You're checking a map, which suggests you're not from this area.

“So it’s two rights and four lefts. That’ll drop you out at the parkway. I'm…headed that way too.”

“Oh, okay. Thanks! I’ll just follow you, then. You’re a lifesaver. Have a great day!”

“You too,” he says, but given his lackluster tone, I don't think he means it.

I climb back in my Jeep and wave him ahead.

He delays about ten seconds, then swerves around me and goes through the intersection.

I stay on his tail all the way out of the neighborhood and onto the highway, keeping a respectable distance, especially when I’m snapping a photo of his license plate.

Once on the parkway, we travel about half a mile before he speeds up, veers into the left lane, and disappears down a side street.

I’d follow him, but he won’t be difficult to find. Plus, there’s something else I need to do.

I pull over and swipe my phone screen, moving off of the screenshot I use to fake having no bars and no service when I want someone to think I don’t have any. I plug the name of Kamden’s most recent employer, The Smoked Glass, into Google Maps. It’s not far. Maybe ten minutes in traffic.

Once that’s ready to go, I open Spotify and crank up Phil Collins.

Thanks to my Aunt Tracey—who, before she died, was more like a mom to me than my own—I’m an 80s junkie, despite being born a couple of decades too late.

I merge onto the road with “Su-su-sudio” bouncing around the interior, singing along as I make a short list in my head of the three things I’m certain of at this point.

One, the man driving that 4Runner couldn’t carry the lead in a children’s play, much less act his way out of a situation where he’s been made.

Two, he was tailing me and didn’t want me to know it.

Three, I don’t know if Fogerty, a ticked-off drug dealer, or some other unknown player is behind this, but I’m going to use that license plate—AW402H9—to get some answers.

When I pull into the parking lot of The Smoked Glass at two in the afternoon, the bar is open and already doing a healthy business. As soon as I step inside the one-story building with no windows, it’s obvious the name is fitting, given the cloud of hazy smoke drifting along the low ceiling.

The only lighting issues from dim, scattered floor lamps, casting everything in shadow—including the patrons and two female servers moving amongst them.

The walls are cranberry, a stark contrast to the deep purple velvet upholstery on the chairs encircling the small round tables.

A pink neon sign, with one letter out, hawks a brand of beer.

The countertop is streaked with water, as if wiped down half-heartedly, a suspicion confirmed by the sour odor wafting up from its surface.

I get as close as I can without touching it and signal the bartender, who comes over.

“What can I get you?”

“Actually,” I say, “I’m checking on someone—Kamden Avery? She worked here a while ago. I think it’s been about a year or so. ”

“And who are you?”

“Investigator Sophie Walsh. I’m with the Mitchell County Sheriff’s Department.

” I flash the badge the sheriff issued to me to use when I’m working for the department.

“We think she might be connected to a case up there. She’s not in trouble.

I’m just trying to get information on what happened to her, who her friends were… ”

A server in a short skirt and shorter top comes up to the bar, moves several prepared cocktails and beers onto her tray, then wades back into the tables.

“A year’s a long time. We go through girls quick,” he says, nodding at the servers. “I haven’t been here that long myself.”

“Could I speak to the manager?”

“He won’t know anything. Troy’s only been here six months.”

“And the manager before him?”

“Died. Heart attack back there.” He tips his head at a door behind him.

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

He shrugs and starts to walk off.

“Could I,” I say, stepping along the bar to keep up, “still talk to Troy? Maybe I could take a look at the records, see if Kamden listed any emergency contacts, anything like that.”

“I’ll ask him, but you’re wasting your time,” he says, and pushes through a door behind the bar. After a few seconds, his shout rings out.

“Hey, Troy! A cop wants to see you!…I don’t know. She’s from Mitchell County.”

When the bartender comes back, he goes to work without so much as a glance in my direction. A minute later, a man I can only presume is “Troy” comes out and scans the room, his eyes settling on me.

“What’re you after? DeAngelo says you’re with the sheriff?”

“Mitchell County Sheriff,” I clarify, then go through the same explanation I gave his bartender.

Over the next few minutes, I find out DeAngelo the bartender is right. It is a waste of time.

Troy doesn’t know Kamden, and The Smoked Glass has no employment records for her—unless you count a scrap of paper with her cell phone number scribbled on it.

The only two people who worked with Kamden who still work here are servers who aren’t scheduled for today.

I did manage to get those names and their schedules for the upcoming week, so I can come back and try again, though Troy doubts they’ll want to talk to me.

Having done as much as I can, I exit the place smelling of cigarettes and desperation. I’m craving a shower and praying the stink doesn’t bleed into my car seats when a high-pitched voice blasts behind me.

“Hey, lady!”

It’s one of the servers. She hustles toward me in stilettos I couldn’t wear even if people held me up on both sides. Meanwhile, she’s waiting tables in them and trucking to me like Flo Jo in the hundred-meter.

“I heard you askin’ about Kamden,” she says, not even having the decency to be out of breath. “You lookin’ for her?”

“I’m…trying to find out what happened to her. She left a year ago and never came back. From what I understand, this is the last place she worked. Did you know her?”

The woman shakes her head, four-inch-long gold bangles dancing from her ears. “No. I started after her. But I know of her, and I know somebody she knew.”

Bingo. “Oh yeah? Who’s that?”

“Reggie.”

“Does Reggie have a full name?”

“Reggie Banks.”

“And how does Reggie know Kamden?”

She stares for several moments, appraising me.

What does she see when she looks at the five-foot-three woman with long dark hair, wisps falling out of her ponytail, tired brown eyes, light wash jeans and short black trench? Do I seem trustworthy to her?

Her expression settles into something hard.

I guess not.

“She’s dead, ain’t she?” she asks.

I don’t want to tell her. I want to see what she can tell me. “Like I said, we’re trying to find out what happened. I can’t go into details about the investigation?—”

“Yeah, she’s dead all right. Police don’t talk about people like that ’ less they’re dead. Dang,” she says, shifting her weight around on her Eiffel Towers and shaking her head, “I just knew she was in a bad way.”

“You were telling me about Reggie?”

She sucks in a breath and rolls her shoulders back. “Reggie won’t shut up about her even after…what…like a year or somethin’? He was her supplier. Or her main one, anyway—there mighta been somebody else supplyin’ her too.

“Reggie, he had a thing for her, and he can’t let it go.

Goes on and on about how great they woulda been, but now she’s gone.

I wouldn’t say nothin’ but…I don’t know…

we meet a lotta weirdos. Her disappearin’?

That coulda been me, you know? Girl was just tryin’ to get along like the rest of us.

I figure we gotta stick together, ’cause ain’t no one else gonna help. ”

“I’d say that’s the right attitude.”

“Well, I don’t need you to tell me that,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “But if somethin’ happened to her, I want y’all to find her. Find out who did it.”

“Is Reggie saying anything else? Does he have a theory about what happened to Kamden? Where she might have gone or who with?”

Her gaze narrows to a pinpoint. “The way he tells it, that other dealer—her other maybe supplier—had a problem with her. A bad problem.” Her head tilts with import at the word “bad,” her brows rising.

“Bad enough to get her killed?”

She crosses her arms in front of her. “That’s something you’ll have to ask Reggie.”

Now we’re getting somewhere.