Page 183 of Secrets Along the Shore

Our signal.

Mine and the girls’.

A childish part of me hoped. Some small, desperate piece of my past that wanted to pretend none of it had changed. That the youngest was still with us. That we could still meet in the middle of the water, to share secrets with friends.

I turned for the kitchen, then one flash stopped me cold. A single blink from across the water.

My breath caught.

Someone was there…Becca.

And she wasn’t inviting me over. Not tonight anyway.

The flashlight in my hand trembled slightly as I clicked it off. No more signals. No more games.

I wasn’t the same girl who used to row across the lake chasing connection. I was an adult now. One with too many questions and not enough answers, and one with an old house to ready to sell. And whoever was on the other side of that water—whether it was Becca, or someone else—they didn’t want me coming any closer.

The message was clear.

Stay where you are.

And so I would.

CHAPTER

TWO

I woke to light—clean,bright, and far too cheerful for what last night had been. Sun spilled across the floorboards in wide golden ribbons, warming the edge of the blanket I must’ve pulled over me on the ratty couch. I’d fallen asleep there, too restless to climb the stairs, too unsettled by the flashlight across the lake. I blinked, disoriented for a second, unsure if what I remembered had been real or some leftover dream from my youth.

I stood and stretched, my muscles stiff from sleeping curled up. The lodge in daylight looked different. Still full of shadows in the corners but less menacing. Dust floated in the air, disturbed only by the movement of my breath.

The kettle and the dead clock lights reminded me the power was still out. The mug from last night sat on the railing where I’d left it after pouring the tea out.

Proof it wasn’t a dream. None of it.

I was halfway through brushing my teeth with bottled water when the headlights of a vehicle shined brightly on the wall. Someone was here. I leaned over the sink and peeked out the bathroom window.

A pale blue pickup rumbled toward the back of the house. An older man stepped out, wiry and hunched with a narrow face and a permanent squint in his eyes like the sun had burned into them decades ago. He wore a faded flannel shirt tucked into worn jeans and a belt with atarnished buckle that gleamed as he moved. His boots were dusty. I remembered him instantly.

Mr. Monroe.

I nearly tripped pulling on my shoes. When I pushed open the front door, he was already standing on the porch, arms crossed over his chest like he owned the place. For all I knew, he still thought he did.

“Mr. Monroe?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.

He squinted at me like I was a stray dog. “Depends who’s askin’.”

I signed my name and added aloud, “Scarlett. Scarlett McBride. I used to come here every July.”

He blinked, unmoved. “That right?”

“You don’t remember me?”

He shrugged, the movement tight and noncommittal. “I been fixing things at this house for forty years. Seen a lot of kids pass through. Can’t say I remember one more than another.”

I wasn’t sure if I believed him, but I nodded and stepped back so he could come inside.

“The power’s out,” I said. “I think the breaker flipped. I tried?—”