Page 182 of Secrets Along the Shore

Still…

Why me?

Scanlon had been meticulous. Cold. Purposeful. He didn’t doanythingwithout reason. Which meant therewasa reason he gave me this house. The more I thought about that, the more it felt like the beginning of something I didn’t want to understand.

Something that was best to leave beneath the water’s surface.

The kitchen filledwith the low hum of the kettle heating on the old gas stove. I’d found a tin of chamomile left behind in one of the cabinets, miraculously sealed. The scent, once I opened it, felt like something familiar and comforting.

Becca used to drink chamomile. Her sister thought it tasted like dust, but Becca insisted it helped her sleep. We were ten when we first shared a mug on the dock, our feet dangling over the edge, the sky turning peach above us. She’d brought a thermos, the steam curling between us as we passed it back and forth.

Now, as the whistle sounded, I poured the water into a cracked mug and stirred the teabag slowly. The lodge relaxed around me as though adjusting to my presence or mine to it. I took the mug and made my way through the darkening house toward the French doors that opened onto the balcony overlooking the lake.

The evening had swallowed the light, leaving the surface of the water a sheet of ink, reflecting the deepening indigo of the sky. The lodge across stood tall across the lake, its silhouette sharp against the tree line. I squinted, searching for a sign of life—anything. A lamp in the window, smoke from the chimney, the shape of someone stepping onto the porch. But the place looked…dead.

Still, I knew better than to assume.

I had learned of rumors over the years that Becca never moved away. That she’d stayed behind with grief like a weight tied around her neck, even while her parents fled from the loss of their youngest. That she’d become a recluse, refusing to speak about what happenedto her sister. Some said she went a little mad. Others said she never spoke again.

I didn’t know which stories were true.

All I knew was that I hadn’t seen her since that summer.

I wondered what she looked like now. We were both thirty. Would I even recognize her? Would she recognize me?

Would shewantto?

A gust of wind stirred the trees, and a moment later, the lights inside the lodge flickered once…then died.

I blinked, trying to adjust to the sudden darkness. The cup trembled slightly in my hands as I stepped back inside. The stove light had gone out, and the clock over the fireplace was blank.

Great, the power was out.

I set the tea down on the nearest surface and moved through the dark, hands outstretched to feel my way, now not only Deaf but also blinded to these unfamiliar surroundings. The lodge had always had its quirks, and the power was one of them. Scanlon used to say the wiring was old and temperamental—like the house itself.

Still, this timing felt…purposeful. Like the house wanted me here as much as I wanted to be here.

I made my way outside and down the porch steps, navigating by memory down the stone path to where my SUV was parked. I fumbled in the console until I found my phone and turned on the flashlight, cutting a narrow beam through the dark.

Inside, I aimed it down the stairs to the basement. The air grew colder as I descended, the old stone walls slick with condensation. I ducked under a hanging pipe and found the breaker box mounted to the far wall from the stairs. It was just like I remembered—an ancient gray panel with switches that looked like they belonged in a museum. I flipped the main breaker off, then back on.

Nothing.

I tried again.

Still nothing.

A low thrum of irritation pulsed in the back of my head. Maybe the estate had shut the power off after the will was read. I wouldn’t besurprised. The attorney said the Scanlon heir was not quiet in their displeasure that I’d been named in the will. They didn’t even know who I was. According to the lawyer, they thought I’d “manipulated an old man” into giving me what should’ve been theirs.

I hadn’t spoken to Scanlon in years and had no idea I was in his will until the letter arrived. If I’d known, I might’ve refused it. Now, here in the dark, it felt like a trap I’d walked into willingly.

I sighed and climbed back up the stairs, the flashlight beam trembling slightly with each step.

Back in the kitchen, I retrieved my mug. The tea was lukewarm now. I sipped it anyway, but the taste was bitter, metallic. On the deck, I poured the rest over the railing, watching the liquid disappear into the bushes below.

The lake sat still as glass. I lifted the flashlight, an old instinct bubbling up before I could question it. Three quick blinks, spaced evenly apart.

Come over.