Page 98 of Secrets Along the Shore (Beach Read Thrillers #1)

CHAPTER

FOUR

The secret study was nothing like the rest of the lodge.

While the house breathed of dust, pine, and the faint scent of lake water drying on wooden floors over the decades, this room felt preserved, sealed off from time itself.

Scanlon’s personal items filled the space, left behind because the family hadn’t known about the room.

They’d emptied the rest of the house, taking everything they’d wanted, leaving me with their picked over furniture and more repairs than was possible to fix.

But they missed Scanlon’s study.

Evan took out his phone and turned the flashlight on.

I did the same as we moved further into the space.

My light cut across the shelves—floor to ceiling, filled with ledgers, journals, books that looked brittle to the touch.

A massive desk sat beneath the single window, its surface covered in neat piles of paper, fountain pens, and a heavy old lamp with a green glass shade.

The wallpaper was darker in here, unfaded in this hidden space.

Evan stepped up beside me to face me. “No way anyone knew this was here. It’s like a time capsule.”

I nod, barely focusing on him. My attention was drawn to a row of filing cabinets against the back wall.

Not sleek, modern ones—these were old, scratched metal…

clinical. I pulled open the top drawer. It st uck, but I gave a hard pull before it rolled out.

Inside, a long alphabetical row of student names. All Deaf. All from the school.

I flipped through the files, scanning names I remembered from my time at the institution. Kids I hadn’t thought of in years. I pause when I come to my own.

McBride, Scarlett.

My fingers trembled as I lifted the folder. There were photos of me, some candid, others posed—taken during summers here at the lodge, but also from school. One shows me standing at the end of the dock, my hair in braids, smiling. I was so happy to be here, and the picture says so.

I scanned notes in Scanlon’s handwriting, observations marked with dates. Highly intelligent…Withdrawn at times…Strong connection with Becca Bishop.

My knees buckled slightly at the name. I slumped into the old desk chair and whispered aloud, “Becca…” Why did Scanlon make a note about Becca in my file?

I flipped through the papers in the file, stopping at a newspaper clipping. It was a picture of Becca’s little sister. Her name still didn’t form in my mind, even while her image faced me. I lifted my hand and instantly, I formed the letter “L” as the memory unlocked a door in my mind.

I used to sign “L” for her name. But what was her full name? What did the “L” stand for?

Frustrated, I dropped the folder on the desk and noticed the article was folded with the bottom half unseen. I opened and flattened it to view the entire picture. Beneath the image was the headline that read: Tragic Drowning Mars Summer on Flathead Lake.

Another photo shows emergency boats, rescue divers, and shocked faces of bystanders. I scanned the article.

Olivia Bishop, age ten, reportedly drowned in the late hours following the Fourth of July celebrations. Her body was recovered the following day. Her parents declined to comment.

Ten. She was ten when she drowned. Maybe that’s why I can only remember her as Becca’s little sister. She never aged past ten.

My throat felt as though it was being choked. I saw her—just days ago, in flashes of memory, in my dreams that woke me sweating, heart pounding.

Now I knew she was real.

This room. This file. It proves she existed. That I didn’t imagine her. That she was real, and she was my friend.

“What is all this?” Evan took the seat across from me. While he rifled through an old ledger book left on the desk, I slipped the folded article into my front jeans pocket. “Why would Scanlon keep all this? And why hide it?”

“Because it wasn’t meant to be found.” My voice was steady, but I felt anything but.

He moved closer and peered at the file in my hand. “That’s your file?”

I nodded. “He kept records. Of all the kids. Detailed ones. Some of these…they’re personal.”

“Creepy personal,” he agreed.

I closed the file cover gently and glanced up at him. There was a shift in his demeanor—something curious now. Almost too interested in Scanlon’s things.

“You said earlier that Scanlon had secrets. How would you know that?”

Evan didn’t answer right away. His eyes swept the room again, as if calculating something. What was he looking for?

“I’ve lived here my whole life. My mom taught at the school for a few years. People talked.”

“About what?”

“I told you. Things. Rumors. Stories that didn’t make sense back then.

” He stood and approached more ledgers on the shelf, ticking each one off down the row.

“People said kids disappeared. Or changed. Came back quieter. Like they were afraid. Not that I blamed them. This place freaked everyone out.”

I absorbed his comment, remembering I was happy here. How could I have not seen what he saw?

His shoulders slumped on a sigh. “Look, maybe it’s best you don’t dig too deep. This kind of history…it could hurt you. And what’s the point in digging it up? ”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” I said. “Why did Scanlon leave this to me? Not the school. Not his heirs. Just me. There’s a reason, and it’s in this room.”

Evan’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “Maybe you should just sell it and walk away. This place has too many…well, too much pain for everyone.”

He’s nervous. I can feel it in the way he avoided eye contact with me.

I stood, needing to get out of here for now, needing to close the entrance and forget this room existed. “I think I’ve seen enough for today,” I said abruptly, stepping past him. “My head’s killing me.”

“You okay?” He followed beside me.

I nodded tightly. “I just need to lie down.”

I ushered him out through the bookcase and pushed the book back into its place. A hidden latch behind the book pressed in and the shelf moved to shut. I caught the glance Evan cast back at the wall, a look of longing to stay behind.

As I led him toward the front door, I saw it clearly in his face—curiosity, but also calculation. Evan may be friendly, but he wasn’t innocent. Not completely.

“I think I need more time before I list the house,” I said as he paused by the front door. “To sort through everything. Figure out what’s worth keeping.”

His jaw ticked. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

“I will.”

He hesitated, then finally stepped off the porch.

I watched as he walked toward his car and glanced back once—up toward the front of the house, his eyes narrowing, searching.

He was looking for the small hexagonal window.

It made me wonder how no one ever figured out where that little window went to in the house.

I didn’t wave. I didn’t move. I just stood there until he drove away, also wondering what else people missed.

At the kitchen table, I stood at the window looking out on the lake and Becca’s home across the water. There was a faint hum in my body, the sense that I was standing on the edge of something deep and dangerous .

I removed the clipping from my pocket.

Olivia Bishop… Livvie .

I traced the edges of her photograph from the article. Her smile. Her wild, wavy hair. Her eyes so full of trust.

She drowned.

They said she drowned. But that word…it never felt right. Too easy. Too neat. No reason she was out on the water alone so late. No investigation.

I knew now what I had to do. This house was not for sale. Not yet. Not until I understood why I was brought here, summer after summer. Why I was favored. Why I was alone in that rowboat the night she disappeared.

Not until I understood what happened to Olivia Bishop…what I had suppressed.

Because maybe she didn’t drown. Maybe there was foul play. Maybe she was silenced long before her body hit the water. And maybe—just maybe—I was meant to remember her. To find her. Even if it destroyed everything I knew to be true.