Page 221 of Secrets Along the Shore

I didn’t give myself time to doubt. I sprinted across the deck, leaped the stairs two at a time, and bolted into the dark yard. The grass was slick with dew, causing my shoes to slip and nearly taking me down. Branches scratched at my arms as I cut through the bushes, and twigs broke beneath my soles.

At the dock, I didn’t slow. I plunged into the water with a splash that soaked me through.

Too loud, I knew, but it couldn’t be helped.

I heard nothing, but I knew whoever was near the car had heard it. I gripped the dock and heaved myself into the boat. The rope around the cleat was knotted tight. My fingers trembled as I worked at it, the damp fibers refusing to give.

Please, please?—

The rope finally slipped free. I pushed off hard. The boat drifting away from the dock just as a figure burst from the trees behind me.

I didn’t stop to look. I grabbed the oars and rowed, my muscles burning with each stroke. The boat rocked violently under my weight, water filling the boat as I haphazardly carved through the dark.

Don’t look back. Just move.

The shoreline receded behind me. The lodge became a dim shape swallowed by trees. Only then did I glance over my shoulder.

The figure stood on the dock, watching.

I kept rowing, breath hitching. The house grew smaller in the distance. Relief crept in.

Then I faced forward and saw movement in the water ahead.

Another boat.

Cutting across the surface, low and fast, coming from the opposite direction. From the other side of the lake. No light. No sound. Just a small, dark craft slicing toward me. The Bishop house sat beyond it, but my eyes locked on the boat. Someone else was coming toward me.

I turned the rowboat, trying to angle away, but rowing alone was slow, the boat heavy. My arms ached, shoulders burning. The second boat moved fast, gaining ground.

Panic surged. I had nowhere to go. No help. No weapon. No knife. It was gone.

Only water and night.

The rowboat rocked as I tried to shift my course again. The other boat grew closer, its silhouette solid now. A figure inside. One person. No light.

I gritted my teeth and kept rowing, heading toward the middle of the lake. Maybe I could lose them in the fog or reach the inlet near the jetty. Maybe I could…

I saw the person in the boat rise, lift something…

Then a flash followed. A flashlight, blinding and direct. Shining right at me.

I shielded my eyes, twisting away.

I didn’t stop to think. I rowed harder, desperate to stay ahead, to reach the inlet and disappear into the trees.

And then the person flashed their light three times.

My breath hitched.

Three flashes.

Our code to come over.

The other boat drifted toward me, slow and steady, slicing across the moonlit water. I watched as a flashlight once again blinked three times from its bow—one, two, three—then nothing.

Was it Becca? It had to be. That was our signal when we were kids, when we’d row across the lake to share secrets. One flash meant “don’t come tonight.” Two meant “meet me halfway.” Three meant “come over.”

Would Becca remember that?