Page 194 of Secrets Along the Shore

“Program,” she repeated with a slight sneer to her lips. “That’s a generous word for it.”

“You’re saying it wasn’t just a summer reward for outstanding students?”

Tabitha’s eyes glittered beneath the brim of her hat. “It was a reward, all right. But not for the students.”

The implication hit like a cold splash of lake water. “What do you mean?”

She shook her head. “If you want to understand what really happened those summers—why Scanlon chose you—start by looking at who else he brought here. The ones he favored.”

My heart thudded so loudly, I could practically hear the sound in my head. “I don’t remember their names.”

Tabitha moved toward the edge of a flower bed and crouched, stabbing the soil with her spade. “You will. You find the study yet? The one hidden behind the bookcase?” Her eyes cut up to me.

I froze. “How do you know about that?”

“The cleaning lady finds things. Scanlon always thought his secrets would outlive him. Maybe they did…but it’s up to you for how long.” She dug into the bed again, then after a moment looked up and said, “What I think is someone like him doesn’t leave a place like this to someone unless he meant for that person to find something.”

“Why me?”

“Maybe you were his favorite. Who knows? Or maybe you were the one person he had the most hope for, and he wasn’t finished with you yet.”

That flipped my stomach. I looked away.

“Don’t be ashamed,” she said, standing. “You were a child. We allmissed things we shouldn’t have. I should’ve paid more attention to what he was doing when I worked here. But we get good at looking away from the ugly things when we want to keep our jobs.”

Tabitha dusted off her gloves. “If you want help with the yard, I’ll come by in my free mornings. It’ll make the place look less abandoned, at least. Show better, if you plan to sell.”

“Okay,” I tried to say, but was sure no sound accompanied the word. “Thank you.”

She gave me a long look. “Start with the files. The students who were chosen. The ones with initials and dates. That’s where the cracks in his work start to show.”

With that, she headed back toward her truck, her boots crunching the gravel. I stepped onto the porch, her words twisting through me like a cold wind.

Start with the students.

As if summoned, a flash of Livvie—her pink nightgown glowing in the moonlight—filled my mind. That last night. The boat. The fireworks. The empty lake that came after.

I shook the memory off like water and turned toward the door.

I had work to do, if I could figure out where to start.

I stoodon the threshold of the study for a long moment, phone flashlight in hand despite the daylight creeping in through the small window. The room was too big for the light to reach the corners, only the desk below it.

I didn’t know if I should trust Tabitha Rooney. She had appeared kind, almost too conveniently. A helpful neighbor at just the right time with just enough memory of me to strike a nerve. Still, when she said to start looking at the students who were chosen, I couldn’t shake the words. They repeated over and over in my mind.

Chosen. That word again.

Inside the study, I headed straight for the filing cabinets and tugged open the top drawer to skim names. Paper, yellowed with time, flicked under my fingertips. Each manila folder was labeled in a bold, block-letter script. Some names I recognized right away—Caleb Price. Dena Alvarez. Jonah Bell. Names I hadn’t thought of in over a decade, faces suspended in memory like insects fixed in amber.

But all of them had been invited to the lodge. Just like me.

I pulled out the oldest folder and sat on the floor, knees stiff in protest. The scent of old glue and paper rose as I opened it. Inside were charts. Medical charts on the student’s deafness and illnesses before and after.

I flipped through one page after another—height, weight, age when they lost hearing, family background, even notes on their behavior. At first it looked like any standard medical record, except the school should never have had access to this much information. Not like this.

And then, scribbled in Scanlon’s unmistakable handwriting:Subject appears to retain residual auditory memory—schedule Phase II by mid-July.

Phase II?