The House Beyond the Dunes, page 1
PRAISE FOR MARY BURTON
DON’T LOOK NOW
“With plenty of possible suspects, Burton’s latest will appeal to readers who want light romance and heavy suspense.”
—Library Journal
BURN YOU TWICE
“Burton does a good job balancing gentle romance with high-tension suspense.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Scorching action. The twists and turns keep the reader on the edge of their seat as they will not want to put the novel down.”
—Crimespree Magazine
HIDE AND SEEK
“Burton delivers an irresistible, tension-filled plot with plenty of twists . . . Lovers of romantic thrillers won’t be disappointed.”
—Publishers Weekly
CUT AND RUN
“Burton can always be counted on for her smart heroines and tightly woven plots.”
—For the Love of Books
“Must-read romantic suspense . . . Burton is a bona fide suspense superstar. And her books may be peppered with enough twists and turns to give you whiplash, but the simmering romance she builds makes for such a compelling, well-rounded story.”
—USA Today’s Happy Ever After
THE SHARK
“This romantic thriller is tense, sexy, and pleasingly complex.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Precise storytelling complete with strong conflict and heightened tension are the highlights of Burton’s latest. With a tough, vulnerable heroine in Riley at the story’s center, Burton’s novel is a well-crafted, suspenseful mystery with a ruthless villain who would put any reader on edge. A thrilling read.”
—RT Book Reviews (4 stars)
BEFORE SHE DIES
“Will keep readers sleeping with the lights on.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
MERCILESS
“Burton keeps getting better!”
—RT Book Reviews
YOU’RE NOT SAFE
“Burton once again demonstrates her romantic-suspense chops with this taut novel. Burton plays cat and mouse with the reader through a tight plot, credible suspects, and romantic spice keeping it real.”
—Publishers Weekly
BE AFRAID
“Mary Burton [is] the modern-day queen of romantic suspense.”
—Bookreporter
ALSO BY MARY BURTON
The Lies I Told
Don’t Look Now
Near You
Burn You Twice
Never Look Back
I See You
Hide and Seek
Cut and Run
Her Last Word
The Last Move
The Forgotten Files
The Shark
The Dollmaker
The Hangman
Morgans of Nashville
Cover Your Eyes
Be Afraid
I’ll Never Let You Go
Vulnerable
Texas Rangers
The Seventh Victim
No Escape
You’re Not Safe
Alexandria Series
Senseless
Merciless
Before She Dies
Richmond Series
I’m Watching You
Dead Ringer
Dying Scream
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Otherwise, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2023 by Mary Burton
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542038676 (paperback)
ISBN-13: 9781542038683 (digital)
Cover design by Ploy Siripant
Cover image: © Silas Manhood / ArcAngel
CONTENTS
STEVIE PALMER’S DIARY
Chapter One LANE
Chapter Two LANE
Chapter Three LANE
Chapter Four STEVIE PALMER’S DIARY
Chapter Five LANE
Chapter Six LANE
Chapter Seven STEVIE PALMER’S DIARY
Chapter Eight LANE
Chapter Nine LANE
Chapter Ten STEVIE PALMER’S DIARY
Chapter Eleven LANE
Chapter Twelve LANE
Chapter Thirteen LANE
Chapter Fourteen STEVIE PALMER’S DIARY
Chapter Fifteen LANE
Chapter Sixteen LANE
Chapter Seventeen STEVIE PALMER’S DIARY
Chapter Eighteen LANE
Chapter Nineteen LANE
Chapter Twenty LANE
Chapter Twenty-One STEVIE PALMER’S DIARY
Chapter Twenty-Two LANE
Chapter Twenty-Three STEVIE PALMER’S DIARY
Chapter Twenty-Four LANE
Chapter Twenty-Five LANE
Chapter Twenty-Six STEVIE PALMER’S DIARY
Chapter Twenty-Seven LANE
Chapter Twenty-Eight STEVIE PALMER’S DIARY
Chapter Twenty-Nine LANE
Chapter Thirty LANE
Chapter Thirty-One LANE
Chapter Thirty-Two LANE
Epilogue LANE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
STEVIE PALMER’S DIARY
Friday, July 7, 2023
This diary is an account of what happened last week. I’ve written it all down because, well, life always goes sideways, and I’ve learned to hedge my bets. Trouble and I know each other well. Hell, we’re almost besties after all these years. But everything is changing. The ground under my feet is steady today, but that never lasts. Not sure how long I can hold it together, but I’ll fight the good fight while I can. No one gets out of here alive, right?
Chapter One
LANE
Friday, December 29, 2023
Norfolk, Virginia
7:00 p.m.
The fall began with a small slip on a marble step. Any other time, I’d have caught myself, adjusted, and found a way to hold steady. But not this time.
That misstep sent both of us tumbling down twenty-one stairs. Us. Kyle and I weren’t really an us. We’d known each other three and a half weeks, technically twenty-five days.
He’d first approached me in the coffee shop I manage. I was refilling the whole milk and creamer containers at the self-serve station when he slid in beside me. The soft scent of his aftershave snagged my attention. Sandalwood. He said something charming. I thought he was talking to someone else. But his gaze pinned me. I was flattered, and even blushed.
Almost immediately, the floodgates between us opened. He began showering me with enchanting texts, fragrant flowers, and mouthwatering kisses. He didn’t push sex, and I was wooed by his patience. In a few short weeks, we were on the path to something.
This weekend was supposed to be our big, romantic beach getaway. Our first sleepover. We were going to ring in the New Year alone, wrapped in each other’s arms. A big step toward figuring out if this thing between us might be real. So much anticipation. Excitement. I’ve no free time between school and managing the coffee shop, so for Kyle to have lured me away for a long weekend was saying something.
However, within an hour of arriving at his glittering North Carolina cottage overlooking the dunes of the northern Outer Banks and the Atlantic Ocean, we fell. The weight of our bodies sent us hurtling through the air so fast, adrenaline didn’t catch up until the last microsecond, when we hit the marble floor.
Now I’m in the hospital, my left hip is banged up and bruised, and my body is so stiff, it’s hard to turn my head to the right. I feel as if I’ve gone three rounds with a boxer. But my injuries aren’t critical. I’ll heal.
Kyle wasn’t so lucky.
He’s dead.
“You’re fortunate to be alive.” Dr. Jackson sounds cheerful, a little too upbeat, as he closes the curtain to my room. He’s tall, lean, and keeps his hair cut short. Dark circles smudge under his eyes. Emergency room sounds swirl around us. Gurneys. Machines beeping. Hushed conversations.
I shift, doing my best to sit up. The muscles in my gut and along my ribs scream in protest. The guy I liked is dead, and I can barely move without my body crying. I was supposed to be sipping wine while sitting in a hot tub with Kyle, making out, and taking another step toward us. “Yes, lucky.”
Dr. Jackson holds a light up to my eyes and waves it over my pupils. I stiffen. “Just look at the light.”
“How long have I been here?” I ask.
“About six hours.”
“How did I get here?”
“You were airlifted from the Outer Banks to Norfolk.”
The Outer Banks is a 170-mile barrier island chain, and Kyle’s house is in the northernmost section, tucked against the Virginia line.
As the crow flies, Kyle’s cottage is thirty minutes from Norfolk, where I live. But there’s no quick way to get from here to there. This remote stretch of land requires a trip around Norfolk’s beltway, followed by a few secondary highways in North Carolina, crossing the three-mile-long Wright Memorial Bridge, and then another twe
Memories of the trip and the house are vague. My mind is trapped in a loop, replaying the crack of Kyle’s skull on marble, the pool of his blood oozing toward me, and the pain rocketing through my body.
I’m only vaguely aware of a man trying to rouse me and then being placed on a stretcher. I was out cold during the med flight ride to Norfolk. Most of this entire day tangles like a bad dream.
“Kyle is really dead?” I ask.
“Yes,” Dr. Jackson says. “He was pronounced dead at the scene.”
I brace for a rush of sadness. Grief, despondency, and sorrow are all natural responses for someone who’s lost the other half of a potential us.
Kyle and I weren’t married or even sleeping together, but we’d had a connection. I didn’t fully understand what tethered us so tightly, but it had been very real. Yet no emotions charge or encircle me. There’s only numbness. Must be shock.
“Are you taking any medications?” Dr. Jackson asks.
“For sleepwalking. I can’t remember the name.”
“That might explain the drugs we found in your system.”
“What drugs?”
“A sedative.”
“I don’t take anything other than the pills to hold off the sleepwalking.”
“Okay.” He regards me and then says, “The head scan tells me you suffered no damage to your brain or spine, which is excellent news. But I’d like to do an MRI of your left hip. X-rays tell me it’s not broken, but I suspect you’ve torn muscles or tendons, or maybe separated the labrum.”
My head is good. A win. “What’s a labrum?”
Dr. Jackson tucks his penlight in his front pocket and runs calloused hands up and down my neck. I brace. “It’s the cartilage cushioning the hip joint. Any pain in the neck?”
“A little stiff, but okay.” I angle my neck away from him and feel the muscles resisting. “The hip aches.”
Dr. Jackson nods. “Then we should do the MRI.”
I look around the curtained-off emergency room cubicle. How much is all this going to cost me? “MRIs are expensive.”
“Clear images give me a good look inside your body. You don’t want to risk more damage.”
As I shift, the back folds of my hospital gown open, and a cold breeze fingers up my spine. I can live with a stiff hip, which in all likelihood just needs rest. “My head is good, right?”
Dr. Jackson sighs. “Yes. But the hip correlates with long-term mobility.”
“I’ll rest it. See how it goes. If it’s an issue, I’ll call you. When can I leave the hospital? I’ll take it easy. Take aspirin. Ice, heat, ice. Chill out.” This place is suffocating, and I want to go home, where I’ll try not to think about the fall, the sound of Kyle’s head exploding, or sticky, warm blood.
Dr. Jackson shakes his head. “I’d like to admit you overnight for observation.”
“No,” I insist. “I’d rather be in my own bed. It’s paid for.”
His brow furrows. “Do you have insurance?”
“I do if you can call it that. My plan is stitched together with high copays and ridiculous deductibles. I’ll take a pass on the tests and the overnight.”
“I don’t advise this, Ms. McCord,” Dr. Jackson says carefully.
“I get it. Liability. Lawyers. I’ll sign whatever I need to.” I shift, wince. Seven hours ago, Kyle and I were driving up the beach toward his house. The day was warm, the sun bright, and the ocean calm. I was nervous, in an excited kind of way.
Now Kyle’s blood smears my arm. “Are you sure about Kyle?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.” He clears his throat. “What do you remember?”
“Arriving at the cottage.” It’s a stunning place and unexpectedly elegant on such a remote stretch of beach. Vaulted ceilings, large plush couches, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the dunes and ocean, white granite kitchen counters, dazzling stainless-steel appliances, and modern art on the walls. Fresh red roses filled a crystal vase on the living room coffee table. I remember almost teasing it was a no-one-can-hear-you-scream kind of place but thinking better of the joke. My dark sense of humor is best reserved for people who’ve known me more than three and a half weeks.
“The EMTs responded to the house at one fifteen p.m. today. When did you arrive at the cottage?”
“About noon. I don’t remember much after we arrived.”
Doubts crease his brow. “It’s okay. Those memories should come back in time.”
I know better than anyone, the power of positive thinking is faulty at best. “I want to leave. Where are my clothes, purse, and phone?”
“I really would like you to stay overnight for observation.”
“No.” Panic constricts my chest. “I hate hospitals.”
“Most people do.”
I sit up straighter, wince as my hip protests. My head is clear. “I’ll call if something goes wrong.”
Dr. Jackson’s frown deepens as he shakes his head. “I’m going to hold you to that, Lane.”
I cross my chest. Hope not to die. “Promise.”
“Any signs of dizziness, nausea, or headaches, call me. No running, cycling, or jumping. If you don’t heed my advice, you’ll really screw up your hip and be in surgery by Valentine’s Day.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice.” A few days ago, I’d toyed with spending Valentine’s Day with Kyle. He might have come out of nowhere, but our relationship was headed somewhere. He was so into me. And now he’s dead.
“Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” Dr. Jackson asks.
“I’m fine, Doctor.” In an hour, Dr. Jackson will have seen five or six more patients, and I’ll recede into his distant memory. I’ll enter the hospital’s digital archives and reside alongside my foster care records, student loan debt accounts, college transcripts, and credit card scores. I’ve lived between the cracks all my life, and I’m comfortable with obscurity. “I just need to get out of here.”
“I’ll send in someone from administration to help you check out.”
I glance over the side rails to a small table outfitted with a phone. “Where are my purse and clothes? My pills are in my purse. I’ll show you the prescription bottle.”
“Let me check with the nurse.” He’s trying to care, but it won’t last long. At least I have his attention right now. “I’ll be right back.”
“Great. Thanks.” I lean my head back against the pillow. I breathe in deeply and slowly exhale. I feel light-headed. This small room feels as if it’s shrinking by the moment, and the hospital’s antiseptic smell makes deep breathing unsatisfying.
When I close my eyes, I hear the pop of Kyle’s skull as it splits like a melon. My stomach tumbles, and I think I’m going to get sick. The bathroom is across the room, but I’m hooked up to an IV, and my hip cries every time I move. Please, I cannot get sick. They’ll never let me out of here if I barf.
The curtain opens and closes, and Dr. Jackson reappears. “The nurse said your purse didn’t come with you.”
“What do you mean it didn’t come with me?” It contains my cell, my medications, and basically my life.
“The nurse contacted the EMTs, and they said your belongings were left behind at the beach house.”
“Are they still there?” I shift and grimace. “I remember setting my overnight bag and purse by the bed in the main bedroom.”
“The EMTs say the house was closed up,” Dr. Jackson says. “It must still be where you left it.”
Shit. I must get my phone and the pills that keep my insomnia and sleepwalking in check. “Where are my clothes?”
“The nurses bagged them. I understand they were badly stained. We also had to cut your pants off to examine your hip.”
“Stained with blood,” I say more to myself. My hands tremble. Blood stains forever, right?
“Let me talk to the nurse. She can get you a set of scrubs.”
“That’s not necessary. I’ll call my neighbor.” I reach for the hospital phone.
“No running or long walks at all, Lane,” he warns. “I’m serious. Take it easy for a few months, or that small rip will go full-blown and will require surgery.”
“I’m not doing surgery.” The idea of a surgeon’s blade cutting my skin terrifies me.
“Then take care of yourself. Call me if you need me. I can also put you in touch with a psychologist.”
Kyle was a psychologist. I’m also a semester away from being one. “Thanks.”
