Page 13 of Secrets Along the Shore

I had never told anyone that detail because it was new, even to me. The reality of it stole my ability to move, to breathe even. I had never associated a personality trait to the Serpent Killer. For the last decade, he was simply a name I didn’t want to speak. Like Harry Potter’s Voldemort, his was the name not to be said aloud. At least not by me. Because it made him real. And if I couldn’t recall his personality, or his face, or his smell, or the feel of his hands, and if I didn’t say his name, he could remain as distant to me as horror film’s villain.

No. This memory was a step to proving that he existed. Not that I needed proof. I didn’twantproof. My logic and my body and my spirit told me he existed. Why would I want to remember it also?

I ran my hand over my face and returned my focus to Sophia’s chair.

That’s what the recliner was now.

Sophia’s chair.

And I saw her again. Only this time she was holding a phone. She lifted it toward me.

“No,”I said.

Sophia raised her eyebrows with an insistent stare.

“I’m not calling him,” I replied.

Sophia continued to stare.

“He’ll just interrogate me. I don’thavemore information,” I argued.

She never seemed to blink. I looked away from Sophia’s glassy blue eyes. In death, she lacked many of the physical signs of life—which made sense.

Only I couldfeelwhat she was trying to tell me.

You need to call Reuben. Tell him this is another way our killers are different, so he doesn’t waste time looking for the Serpent Killer.

“I don’t want to get involved.” I snatched a pair of underwear from the clean pile and nervously stretched the waistband. “It’s one thing for you and I to—to try to figure this out, but not Detective Walker. Not Reuben.”

I need you to speak for me.

“No!” I threw the underwear onto the side table and launched to my feet.

Sophia vanished.

The recliner was empty.

“No,” I said again, softer and with weaker resolve.

How did anyone with a heart tell a dead woman no?

I didn’t call Reuben.I didn’t call Livia. But I also couldn’t ignore Sophia or my memory. The problem with nighttime and trauma is that instead of falling into bed, exhausted and ready to find solace in the unconscious depths of sleep, you were more awake than you ever wanted to be.

Adrenaline told my body that it was safer awake than asleep. My mind spun in chaotic rhythms. Sometimes, in the past, I’d caughtmyself staring emptily out my apartment window, watching traffic go by on the highway. The headlights were mesmerizing spots of interest and it wasn’t unusual for me to stand there over an hour. Watching, counting headlights like sheep, and longing for my mind and my body to still enough to lay down.

Tonight was different.

I was awake—wide awake—but there wasn’t chaos. There was purpose. Resolve. I was standing at my window and yes, I’d counted at least eighty-three pairs of headlights. Now I spun on my bare feet and snagged a notebook from the table at the end of my couch. I reviewed my scratched notes.

Snake under her window.

Stillwater Lake.

Burial of convenience.

Purple shirt torn.

Black thread around cattails.