Page 92 of Secrets Along the Shore (Beach Read Thrillers #1)

CHAPTER

THIRTY-FOUR

The sun hovers low in the west, a gorgeous honey dripping down the horizon into the river. I sit on the bank, in a quiet, grassy spot where Daniel and I used to go for picnics. I haven’t been here in a while.

Today I needed to be.

Bilbo brings over the stick he’s been chewing and settles in beside me. “It’s just you and me now, bud,” I say, scratching behind his ear. “Guess we should be used to that by now.”

The waning sunshine warms my face, and a cricket hops on and off my arm. Grace’s words float back to me—the ones she spoke the first time I saw her after I ended things with James.

“I feel so blindsided,” I told her. “I still can’t believe James or Edward—or Matthew—could be tangled up in a murder. It’s surreal.”

She hugged me long and hard, whispering, “Aw, hon. The thing about people is, it’s not what’s on the surface—the part they let you see—that ends up breakin’ you. It’s all that lies beneath.”

Truer words were never spoken.

My eyes move from the sky to my right palm, where my engagement ring sits. A thousand sparkles dance over my skin when I twist it in the light.

James is out of my life now. A cancer cut out of my heart with a hacksaw. It wasn’t clean, but at least it was quick. This ring is what’s left of almost a year of my life. I hold it up to the sunlight, the river’s never-ending waters flowing in the background.

I’ve seen movies where the woman tosses the ring after a bad breakup. That always seemed crazy to me. Now I understand the compulsion.

I really do.

But I’m not Kate Winslet, and this is a twenty-thousand-dollar ring.

So yeah, I’m keeping it. There are some pricey items on my to-do and to-buy lists, and I think it’s only fair that James foots the bill.

It’s not like he’ll complain. He’s got his hands full with felony charges and unwinding his doomed campaign.

“I’ve always wanted to take one of those European river cruises,” I say to Bilbo. “What do you think? Good idea?”

Bilbo chews his stick more aggressively.

I’ll take that as a yes.

I heave a sigh. It’s been nice sitting here for the last hour, away from the noise. Away from the well-meaning texts and emails—the “I’m-so-sorrys” and the “It’ll-get-betters.” But I can’t stay here forever. There’s work to do, and the world doesn’t stop turning just because mine has.

“Come on, boy,” I push up from the ground, turn away from the river, and head for the dirt turnaround where I left my Jeep. As soon as I crest the embankment surrounding the turnaround, my Jeep comes into view and I see it—a note stuck under the driver’s-side windshield wiper.

I stop, call Bilbo to me, and scan the area, my hand resting on my holstered weapon. The area is deserted—no other cars, motorcycles, people…nothing. A sensation like a spider crawling trickles over my bare neck as I peer into the woods along the dirt drive, straining to detect anyone hiding there.

Bilbo’s stance is rigid. He senses something isn’t right.

We stay like that for at least a minute. If there is someone here, I can’t see them, and Bilbo hasn’t located them either.

I reach the Jeep and snatch the message from the windshield. It’s exactly like the one left for me in the courthouse parking lot on the day Fogerty’s trial ended .

ANOTHER JOB WELL DONE. HE DIDN’T DESERVE YOU.

YOU DODGED A BULLET. SO PROUD OF YOU.

“Who are you?” I whisper, glancing around one more time.

There’s no response. After several seconds of silence—with even the birds holding their tongues as if helping me to hear—I help Bilbo into the passenger seat, then climb behind the wheel. We drive off with Don’t Stop Believin’ blasting from the radio.

I don’t like this note business. The first one…I just thought that was from a well-meaning friend. Now it’s weird and invasive and more than a little creepy. I also have the distinct feeling this isn’t the last note I’ll get.

It’s an unsolved mystery, and I’m not a fan of those. Letting them sit is not in my nature—I hit them hard from the start, full throttle.

Usually.

This, however, is not a usual time. These notes and whoever’s behind them—whatever their intentions—will keep, at least long enough for me to catch my breath. For now, I’m going to focus on putting my world back together.

It’s time to start my life over.

Again.