Page 135 of Secrets Along the Shore

“No.”

“All right, well”—I hold up the keys—“I’m gonna take these with me. Just leave the car alone and someone will be around to collect it.”

At that moment, the front door opens and a child wobbles onto the porch, crying and calling for mommy. Serenity tosses me a weary look, utters a quick, “I gotta go,” then disappears into the house with the child.

I’m walking back to my Jeep, contemplating how Bilbo is a whole lot easier to manage than those kids, when I notice the black Toyota 4Runner parked about six houses down. It wasn’t there when I pulled in, and though that by itself isn’t strange, the fact that someone is sitting in the driver’s seat is. Given the distance and the 4Runner’s tinted windshield, I can’t make out any distinct facial features, but it appears to be a male wearing sunglasses and a ball cap.

Whoever he is, he’s looking right in my direction.

Maybe it’s nothing, but the hairs on my arms prickle and a cloud of unease settles on me.

I learned a long time ago to trust my instincts, even if I can’t explain them.

Which means things are about to get interesting.

I drive awayfrom Serenity’s house and roll to a stop at the sign at the end of the street, where—in my rearview mirror—I watch the 4Runner pull away from the curb. I turn right, and when I cruise through the next intersection, I see that the 4Runner is behind me in the distance.

I begin a series of rights and lefts that will lead me back to the main thoroughfare. When the road crests a sharp hill, I slow on the decline until I’ve decelerated to a crawl. I’m about twenty feet from the stop sign when the 4Runner bursts over the rise, going much faster than I am. A squeal of brakes screeches through the air as the SUV lurches to a stop. Though he avoids hitting me, he ends up right on my bumper. We both continue on, driving the rest of the way to the stop sign.

That’s when I get out.

Phone in hand, I wave at the driver as I approach his door, walkingalongside his hood. He's dark-haired, has a scruffy beard, and is wearing a white Braves ball cap and aviator sunglasses. I can tell by the pinched look on his face that he has no idea how to handle this.

Not to worry. I can help you out.

I motion for him to roll the window down, and he does. The odor of stale cigarettes and greasy takeout burgers smacks me in the face.

“Um, yeah?” he says.

“Hey, I’m sorry to stop you like this”—I offer a friendly smile and a silly shrug—“but my phone doesn’t have service.” I hold it up to show him my screen and the blank space where the reception bars should be. “I don’t know where I am, and I need to get back to the main road. I don’t suppose you could give me directions out of here? It’s like a maze.”

I allow the silence to stretch between us, and finally, he reaches for his phone. When he brings it close, I can see the screen. A map is already showing.

“Yeah, sure. Let me see…”

Fun fact number one: You're checking a map, which suggests you're not from this area.

“So it’s two rights and four lefts. That’ll drop you out at the parkway. I'm…headed that way too.”

“Oh, okay. Thanks! I’ll just follow you, then. You’re a lifesaver. Have a great day!”

“You too,” he says, but given his lackluster tone, I don't think he means it.

I climb back in my Jeep and wave him ahead. He delays about ten seconds, then swerves around me and goes through the intersection. I stay on his tail all the way out of the neighborhood and onto the highway, keeping a respectable distance, especially when I’m snapping a photo of his license plate. Once on the parkway, we travel about half a mile before he speeds up, veers into the left lane, and disappears down a side street.

I’d follow him, but he won’t be difficult to find. Plus, there’s something else I need to do.

I pull over and swipe my phone screen, moving off of the screenshot I use to fake having no bars and no service when I want someoneto think I don’t have any. I plug the name of Kamden’s most recent employer, The Smoked Glass, into Google Maps. It’s not far. Maybe ten minutes in traffic.

Once that’s ready to go, I open Spotify and crank up Phil Collins. Thanks to my Aunt Tracey—who, before she died, was more like a mom to me than my own—I’m an 80s junkie, despite being born a couple of decades too late. I merge onto the road with “Su-su-sudio” bouncing around the interior, singing along as I make a short list in my head of the three things I’m certain of at this point.

One, the man driving that 4Runner couldn’t carry the lead in a children’s play, much less act his way out of a situation where he’s been made.

Two, he was tailing me and didn’t want me to know it.

Three, I don’t know if Fogerty, a ticked-off drug dealer, or some other unknown player is behind this, but I’m going to use that license plate—AW402H9—to get some answers.

When I pullinto the parking lot of The Smoked Glass at two in the afternoon, the bar is open and already doing a healthy business. As soon as I step inside the one-story building with no windows, it’s obvious the name is fitting, given the cloud of hazy smoke drifting along the low ceiling.