Page 170 of Secrets Along the Shore

I pull out my phone to try calling Edward, when I remember the number Roy Hutchins gave me for his mysterious client. I squeeze my eyes shut and recall it from memory, punch it in, then hold my breath.

Please don’t ring. Please don’t ring.

I wait, and for several seconds am thrilled to hear nothing but the ticking grandfather clock in the corner. Not thatsilenceproves Edward isn’t involved, but ringing would most definitely prove that he is.

A relieved sigh almost escapes my lips when intermittent buzzing sounds behind me. A raw knowing scrapes my insides. I start to turn in the direction of the source—to find out what and where it is—when a sharp pain explodes at the back of my head.

The world goes black.

CHAPTER

THIRTY

When I come to,I have no idea where I am.

I’m so dazed, for a moment, I’m in that oblivious state when you wake and don’t remember the awful thing that happened the night before. Then reality slams into me with the force of an eighteen-wheeler, and I remember everything.

I blink, slowly opening my eyes to take in the plank floor I’m lying on. My head is pounding and, despite realizing I am very much in danger, all I want to do is go back to sleep. I probably have a concussion, and when my hand rakes over my scalp and there’s blood on it, I know I’ve likely got a nasty wound back there too. My hand flies to my holster.

My Sig is gone.

When I inhale a deep breath, a knife of pain slices through my head. The sensation takes a few seconds to recede, but when it does, I push myself into a sitting position, wobble, and grab onto a nearby chair I don’t recognize for support.

“You’re up.”

Despair swallows me. Unlike the chair, the voice is one I know well.

I swivel to focus on the man seated at a wooden dining table across the room. A man I’ve come to love over the last year.

“Matthew,” I say, my voice as somber as my heart. I take in myfiancé’s brother and best friend. A person I’ve grown to cherish as I would my blood sibling. A person I was eager to call family.

As it turns out, thereisa simple explanation for the video footage of James in the parking lot of The Backroom. One that exonerates him completely.

Itwasn’tJames at all.

It was Matthew—thirteen months older and practically James’s twin, at least from the back. Same stature, same haircut, same stride.

I pray there’s also a benign explanation for how James’s fingerprints ended up on the tarp. Though, even if there is, it won’t help my future brother-in-law, who is holding my pistol on me.

I roll my neck, trying to lift the haze clouding my consciousness, and examine my surroundings. I’m in a rustic house—much like a log cabin—sparsely, though nicely, furnished. Heavy curtains blocking out all sunlight are drawn across the windows. Fishing gear and other fishing-themed paraphernalia comprise what little decoration exists. Two orange life jackets hang on a peg rack on the wall by the door.

My guess is I’m in a house somewhere along the river. As far as I know, the Calders don’t have a place like this, but that doesn’t mean they don’t.

I manage to stand, quickly lowering myself into the chair when my stomach tumbles. I wonder if he’ll let me stay here.

He does.

“What’s going on, Matty?” I say, and find it hurts to talk. There’s a stab of pain at the base of my skull, and I wince as I appraise the state of him. He looks rough. Weary.

Resigned.

A limp smile pulls at one corner of his mouth. “Always liked it when you called me that.”

I offer the warmest smile I can, ignoring the thudding in my brain. “We can work this out.” I nod at the pistol. “You don’t need that thing.”

“If only, Soph. If only.”

I shake my head negatively in response, and immediately wish I didn’t, because it only made the pain flare. “This is not the way to dealwith it, Matty. They know. They’ve connected James to that tarp, and it won’t be long before they connect you.”