Page 93 of Secrets Along the Shore (Beach Read Thrillers #1)

PROLOGUE

Fifteen Years Ago

Flathead Lake, Montana

I felt the fireworks more than I saw them—I sealed my eyes shut as the pounding booms vibrated through my body, exhilarating me.

I couldn’t hear them as my ears had been closed to sound since I was a toddler by an illness that stole my hearing from me.

I opened my eyes to the lights rippling through the sky, across the lake, and into my body, buzzing inside my chest and skull.

A thousand colors bloomed above me like wildflowers caught in the wind, and it felt as though the world was cracking open and, for a second, I could almost hear it.

Then the silence returned with wisps of leftover smoke wafting away, and I was alone on a rowboat in the middle of the lake, realizing my friends never rowed out to watch the spectacle with me as they had done for the last four years.

The sky, cleared of smoke and light, became black velvet sprinkled with stars.

Thick darkness settled over the water, draping me like a soft blanket.

I sighed in disappointment at missing my friends.

My hands loosened on the oars. The lake, once chaotic with the wakes of a hundred boats, stilled again.

I dipped the oars into the water, propelling my small rowboat toward the girls’ house across the lake, attempting to see if they were on their deck.

The middle of the lake was our meeting place, but something must have kept them away.

I didn’t want to believe they stayed away because of me.

Please don’t let it be because of me .

It was always here in this place, the halfway point, that we would meet every Fourth of July night beneath the bright lights and thunderous booms that even I could hear through the vibrations.

I hadn’t known their names the first summer I saw them—only that they lived in the grand white house that faced the lodge where I came to stay.

Their windows were always golden with the setting sun and filled me with warmth across the cold water, their exuberant waves sent across the lake in a silent invitation to join them.

Their clothes were always prettier than my basic school uniforms colors of tan and navy, their hair brushed long and smooth, their mother always nearby on the deck, barefoot and smiling, waving at boats as they passed.

They were what I imagined a loving home and family would be like— if I had had one.

We weren’t supposed to meet. Not really.

I was one of them— a student from the Bayberry School for the Deaf, selected to stay at the headmaster’s summer lodge—chosen, he said, for our excellence, our resilience, and our growth.

But I knew better. It wasn’t about grades.

My scores barely reached average. There was something else, something he saw in me.

Headmaster Scanlon would say, “Scarlett McBride, you’re almost there.

” Though I never understood where there was.

And no one at the school ever told me. They just resented us, the chosen ones, avoided us even.

So when I saw the sisters across the lake watching me one morning four years ago, and they signed hello , the older one more clumsily with both hands, I nearly cried.

Each summer after that, we’d wave, then sign.

Then finally met—rowing out to the middle of the lake, where no adults could see.

Just the three of us. In the beginning, I was too shy to say much.

But they didn’t seem to mind. They knew a little sign language, though I never asked how.

I didn’t care. I was just happy to have their friendship.

I read their lips, and they brought candy and stories, and once, they let me hold a duckling they’d rescued from the rocks.

That was the thing about them. They made me feel like I wasn’t broken. Like I wasn’t invisible.

Tonight, I expected them to be waiting once again to begin our summer together. But instead, for the first time in four years, I felt rejected by them like all the others at school rejected me.

I stopped rowing, letting the water rock the boat beneath me in a small, steady lull. The surface reflected the stars like tiny glass shards—perfect and sharp. I turned to look toward their lodge, halfway up the slope on the opposite bank, its wide balcony like a stage set for a story.

Nothing.

I squinted into the darkness. Waiting. Watching.

Three blinks of a flashlight. That was our cue.

One blink meant not tonight. Two meant we would meet halfway. Three meant to come over. But there was no light at all. Just black windows. Stillness.

I set the oars beside me and folded my arms over the side of the boat. It was late, yes, but not too late. They always stayed out until the fireworks ended—until the lake cleared and the adults were too tired or too tipsy to keep watch.

I looked again. The trees bowed in the wind, leaves catching just enough moonlight to glint like silver. I could almost imagine I saw something moving in the shadows, but it was just the wind. Just my imagination.

Another minute passed. Then another. Still, nothing.

An itch started in the back of my throat, crawling down my spine. I sat up straighter, heart thudding without reason. A sliver of panic whispered that maybe something had happened. Maybe someone saw them and stopped them from coming. Maybe they were in trouble.

I raised my flashlight and blinked it three times in a row, quick and desperate. The tiny beam barely reached the shore. I waited again, counting the seconds in my head.

Ten. Twenty. Thirty.

Darkness .

A cold knot settled in my stomach. My hands curled into fists in my lap. What if they changed their minds? What if they didn’t want to see me anymore?

No.

No, they wouldn’t do that. Not them. Not the sisters who always smiled when they saw me across the water. Not the girls who brought me cherry licorice and told me secrets about their neighbor’s dog having puppies. Not the girls who signed friend and pointed to me.

But people change. People lie.

I stared harder, willing the light to blink. Wishing, praying, begging. But the lodge stayed dark, the shadows thick, the silence pressing.

Maybe someone told them I was strange. That I didn’t belong. That I was favored —whatever that meant. Maybe they’d grown tired of me, tired of having to slow down their speech or fumble through hand signs. Maybe they were embarrassed by me. Ashamed.

I thought we were different.

But maybe I was just a project to them. A novelty. A summer charity case they’d finally outgrown.

A sick feeling rolled over me. I swallowed hard and turned the flashlight off, setting it gently beside me. The boat shifted with the current, alone in the dark. And I let the anger bloom—hot and sharp and mean.

It was easier than sadness. Easier than disappointment.

Then I saw her—the younger sister—racing my way. I twisted the oars in my grip, bracing for her offensive reason when no excuses would be enough to appease my anger.

None.