Page 95 of Secrets Along the Shore (Beach Read Thrillers #1)

CHAPTER

TWO

I woke to light—clean, bright, and far too cheerful for what last night had been.

Sun spilled across the floorboards in wide golden ribbons, warming the edge of the blanket I must’ve pulled over me on the ratty couch.

I’d fallen asleep there, too restless to climb the stairs, too unsettled by the flashlight across the lake.

I blinked, disoriented for a second, unsure if what I remembered had been real or some leftover dream from my youth.

I stood and stretched, my muscles stiff from sleeping curled up. The lodge in daylight looked different. Still full of shadows in the corners but less menacing. Dust floated in the air, disturbed only by the movement of my breath.

The kettle and the dead clock lights reminded me the power was still out. The mug from last night sat on the railing where I’d left it after pouring the tea out.

Proof it wasn’t a dream. None of it.

I was halfway through brushing my teeth with bottled water when the headlights of a vehicle shined brightly on the wall. Someone was here. I leaned over the sink and peeked out the bathroom window.

A pale blue pickup rumbled toward the back of the house.

An older man stepped out, wiry and hunched with a narrow face and a permanent squint in his eyes like the sun had burned into them decades ago.

He wore a faded flannel shirt tucked into worn jeans and a belt with a tarnished buckle that gleamed as he moved.

His boots were dusty. I remembered him instantly.

Mr. Monroe.

I nearly tripped pulling on my shoes. When I pushed open the front door, he was already standing on the porch, arms crossed over his chest like he owned the place. For all I knew, he still thought he did.

“Mr. Monroe?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.

He squinted at me like I was a stray dog. “Depends who’s askin’.”

I signed my name and added aloud, “Scarlett. Scarlett McBride. I used to come here every July.”

He blinked, unmoved. “That right?”

“You don’t remember me?”

He shrugged, the movement tight and noncommittal. “I been fixing things at this house for forty years. Seen a lot of kids pass through. Can’t say I remember one more than another.”

I wasn’t sure if I believed him, but I nodded and stepped back so he could come inside.

“The power’s out,” I said. “I think the breaker flipped. I tried?—”

“Of course you did,” he said, turning his head, so I missed what else he might have spoken. He brushed past me, already heading toward the basement.

I followed, but he didn’t ask for help, didn’t even look back. Just muttered to himself as he opened the panel, words I couldn’t see. He worked quickly, probably something he had done a thousand times and could do in his sleep.

He poked at the switches, grumbling with words I couldn’t understand, then turned to face me. “Estate people don’t care nothin’ about this place. Let it sit too long. Moisture’s gotten in. The power will hold for now, but I’ll have to replace a switch. Always was a temperamental monstrosity.”

I almost smiled. The house was a temperamental monstrosity. Maybe none of Scanlon’s family wanted the house, and that’s why he left it to me. Perhaps I was his last resort.

With a flick, the lights popped on above us.

Mr. Monroe turned to me and said, “There.”

I nodded, appreciative. “Thanks. ”

Monroe didn’t respond. He dusted his hands and started back up the stairs. I followed him again. At the front door, he paused and looked out toward the lake, squinting hard, he turned to face me. “Storm’s coming. Could feel it in my knees this morning.”

I stood beside him, hands in the pockets of my sweatshirt. “You still live in town?”

“Just outside it.”

“Do you know if the Bishop family still lives across the lake?”

He glanced at me, something guarded in his expression. “The oldest does.”

“Becca? What about her parents?” I asked, careful to keep my voice neutral.

He blinked. “Left a long time ago. Moved to Bozeman. Haven’t seen them in a good ten years.”

That made me frown. “That’s too bad for Becca. Especially after losing her sister. What was her name? I can’t remember.”

Monroe looked at me like I’d said the sky was purple. “Like I said, there were a lot of you kids. I never could keep you all straight. But the oldest Bishop girl lives alone now. Keeps to herself. That’s how she wants it. I say let people do as they please.”

I hesitated to respond, trying to recall the name of the younger girl, but all I could see was her pink nightgown, soft and bright against the shadows in the lodge hallway. Her sweet smiles and the way she used to run barefoot down the staircase, hair flying behind her like ribbons in the wind.

But her name…

Nothing.

My mind was a curtain, drawn tightly shut.

Before I could press further, Mr. Monroe tipped his head toward the door. “If that’s all, I got a pipe to fix over at the Jensen place. I’ll be back to change that breaker later today.”

I stepped aside. “Of course. Thanks again.”

He nodded once, then trudged back to his truck. I stayed on the porch, watching until he pulled onto the road and disappeared down the trees.

Back inside, I stood in the middle of the foyer and let the memory fall over me again. I remembered her climbing the banister like it was a jungle gym. The way Becca used to shush her with a finger to her lips when she sang too loud. All while I wished I could hear her tune.

Why couldn’t I remember her name?

I wandered to the staircase, looking up. The same sweeping wood rail curved along the banister where she once sat with her legs swinging. I glanced toward the landing, half expecting to see the girl again, bare feet padding quietly across the wood.

Nothing.

I climbed the stairs and stepped into the bedroom that had been mine each summer. The view stretched across the lake. Straight to the Bishop house.

I pressed a palm to the glass and studied the house. Impenetrable. Curtains drawn. So Becca was still there, which meant she was the one to flash a light at me last night.

Don’t come over .

I turned from the window, heart squeezing tight.

The ache of rejection was old and familiar. I’d felt it at school often enough—other kids signing behind my back, rolling their eyes when I passed them by or when I was invited to the lodge again and again, while others weren’t.

I didn’t know why Scanlon had chosen me. I didn’t ask. I just said yes. Because here, I had the lake and the girls. And they welcomed me.

Until they didn’t any longer.

I turned toward the closet, opening it. Inside were a few empty hangers and a mothball-scented box. I found nothing but a stack of faded towels and an old lake map folded in quarters. There was nothing here for me anymore.

I headed downstairs, grabbed my keys, and stepped out to the SUV. It was time to go into town to find a real estate agent. Maybe someone who remembered more than Mr. Monroe did.

Maybe someone who remembered the name of the girl in the pink nightgown—the girl who drowned that Fourth of July.

The road into town was narrower than I remembered.

It twisted between groves of pine and dips of land where the morning dew still clung low to the earth, slicking the roads.

Fifteen years had gone by since I’d driven through this way, but everything looked smaller now.

Less magical. The village had always been a blur from the back seat of Scanlon’s sedan—just a place we passed through on the way to the lake.

We never stopped. The lodge was always the only destination.

Until now.

The SUV hummed as I rolled past the weathered welcome sign that read:

Welcome to Flathead Village. Est. 1893. The Heart of Flathead.

Charming sign, but the village wasn’t much.

A single main street with squat buildings lined up like teeth in a crooked smile—hardware store, diner, market, bait shop, antique store.

At the far end of the block sat a white two-story building with green trim and a hanging wooden sign that read Scanlon Realty.

Stunned, I pulled in and stared at the sign, wondering at the connection to Headmaster Scanlon. The parking lot was empty except for an old red Jeep. Maybe the employee would share the information to help make the connection.

Inside, the office was clean if a little outdated. Framed pictures of lakefront cabins and smiling couples decorated the walls, a few crooked from time and gravity. A scent of brewed coffee and lemon polish hung in the air.

A man appeared from the back, maybe a few years older than me. Mid-thirties. Broad shoulders, clean-cut. He wore a checkered shirt rolled at the sleeves and a pair of dark jeans. His name tag said Evan.

“Morning,” he said with a polite nod. “Can I help you?”

I gave a quick wave and signed slowly, knowing some people here might not be used to it. “Do you sign?”

He looked embarrassed. “A little. Took some in college. I remember enough not to embarrass myself…I think.”

I smiled faintly and switched to speaking. “Then I’ll save you from fumbling. I’m Scarlett McBride. I’m looking to sell a property I just inherited. I thought I’d stop in. Surprised to see the name Scanlon on the sign. Any relation to Aaron Scanlon? The headmaster from the Deaf school?”

“Oh,” he said, stepping forward and offering his hand. “Nice to meet you. Would you like some coffee? I just brewed a fresh pot.” He moved to the coffee station, turning his head enough for me to see him say, “Not by blood.”

I shook my head to stop him from pouring me a cup. “No, thank you. I’d rather get straight to business, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” he said, gesturing to the desk. “Have a seat.”

I didn’t. “It’s the old lodge. On the north shore. Scanlon’s lodge.”

He froze.

Something in his face shifted. His posture straightened, the polite mask still in place, but something behind his eyes flickered—caution, maybe. Did he recognize me? I didn’t remember him if our paths crossed.