I didn’t answer, closing the door slowly as he backed away. Through the gap in the curtains, I watched him walk to his truck, a shadow in the night. And then I watched the brake lights fading into the distance until I was sure he was gone.
* * *
WITH MY NEW UNDERSTANDING of my past, Littleport in the dead of night became something else. No longer were these the winding roads of single-car accidents, of a lack of streetlights, of drifting off the road while you slept. But a town where the guilty roamed, unapologetic. It was a place that made killers of men.
I was on edge, continually checking my rearview mirror, trying to remain unseen as I drove back to the Blue Robin.
Here, I believed, was the scene of the crime. Not the Lomans’ house, or the bluffs, or the beach, as the police had declared last year. But here, on the other side of town.
After I told the police, they would have to search this place, rope it off, close it to civilians. And I needed proof to back up the story I believed.
I used the light from my phone to illuminate the path in front of me as I walked from the driveway to the front door. Up here, with all the undeveloped land, every gust of wind turned threatening, and I kept casting the beam of light into the trees, down the empty road, until I was safely alone inside the house. And I didn’t turn on the lights. In case someone was watching. I could feel them each in a shadow of my memory: Faith, the police, Parker at the edge of the garage. There were so many people who saw things, who knew things. Now Grant and Bianca were here, too, and I knew, just as Luce did—they would do anything to protect the king.
I moved by memory, my hand trailing the couch, the chair, the kitchen counter, as I walked by. The beam kept low and away from the windows. My mother’s painting on the wall, her voice in my ear: Look again. Tell me what you see.
This was the trick, I understood. Not to change the angle or the story, or to take a step forward or back—but to change yourself. I remembered that night, standing behind my mother while she took the pictures on the Harlows’ boat that would ultimately lead her to this. The piece she tackled over and over, like there was something she was chasing. Now I saw everything out of frame, everything that slipped this painting into context—the boat she was standing on, the fact that Connor and I were playing a game of I Spy behind her. The stark clarity of that moment, while the shadows before us kept fading, disappearing into the night. As if the life she was living and the life she was chasing were one and the same all this time.
I backed away from it now, heading toward the closed door at the end of the hall. Luce and I had tried the handle that night, but it had been locked. I’d slammed my hand on the wood then—hoping it had made whoever was inside jump.
Now the door creaked open, shadows of furniture looming in the darkness. With the curtains pulled closed here, I finally flipped the light switch, illuminating the white bedspread, the dark wooden chest, blankets piled beside it. The lid creaked open and I peered inside—the scent of pine, of old quilts and dusty attics.
This had been open, I remembered, when I came over the day after the party to clean. Had her phone been here even then?
Next the bed, running my hand over the soft material. I walked the wood floors, the hardwood popping, past the closet, to the bathroom.
There was a high window over the toilet to let in light, but it didn’t open. A long mirror trimmed in white. A vanity raised off the tile on boxy wooden feet. We’d cleaned the floor of water, Parker and I, after Ellie Arnold came in here with her friends to warm up. The water had been everywhere, grimy towels left behind in the corners.
I ran my fingers across the granite surface of the vanity now, the swirling marble, gray and white. The hard corners. I dropped to my knees, remembering how wet the floor had been that night—the towels heaped in the corner, that I’d put in a plastic bag.
The next day, I’d run them through the wash with bleach, to get them clean.
I peered under the vanity at the darker, untouched grout—harder to clean and see. I stood again, leaning my weight into the side of the vanity until it scratched against the tile, away from the wall. I kept pushing, inch by inch, until it was wedged against the shower, my breath coming too fast. The space left behind was fully exposed, the dirt and debris, and the darker grout, stained from water left sitting.
I dropped to my knees, ran my fingers over the chalky residue.
A corner stained rust brown. A spot missed. I rocked back on my heels, a chill rising, and scrambled out of the room, seeing everything clearly this time.
A fight behind a locked door; the phone knocked from her hand, the surface fracturing. A struggle taking her farther from the door, from the exit. A push in the bathroom. Falling, hitting her head. The blood pooling. Someone else trying to clean, desperately. Taking the spare towels and wiping up the mess. Needing to move her.
Searching through her purse, finding the keys. Peering out the window above the toilet, pressing the buttons on her key—seeing my car light up across the way.
Grabbing a blanket from the chest to cover her. Losing her phone in the process, in the chaos. Where it fell to the base and remained—waiting to be found.
Wrapping her up. God, she was so small. Peeking out into the hall and flipping the power at the circuit breaker. But who?
Had it all been to cause a scene in the dark? A distraction while someone had carried a dying or unconscious Sadie to the car?
If so, I had covered it up, all of it, when I’d come back the next day. Running the evidence through the washer with bleach, ordering a window replacement, closing the wooden chest—and leaving her phone inside. I had erased her, piece by piece, until she became invisible. And I needed to pull her back into focus.
My hand shaking, I used the camera on my phone to take pictures of everything: the spot behind the vanity with the rust-colored stain of blood, the chest of blankets, the hallway circuit breaker, the distance from there to the front door. Gathering proof of it all before I was barred from this place. The story I could see, that only I bore witness to—the ghost of her moving in the gaps between my memories.
I could see it all playing out. Three steps back, three steps forward. A girl in blue, spinning in my room, to a flash of color in the sea, a pale leg caught on the rocks—hanging on until she was found.
* * *
ON THE WAY BACK, I veered away from the harbor—away from the coast. Toward the mountains instead. Found myself winding down a small back road that I hadn’t traversed in years.
It was a long half-paved road, forking off into packed-dirt driveways leading to older homes, surrounded by trees.
I slowed until I was in front of the last house on the street: a ranch home tucked out of sight from the road, the ground covered in pockets of grass and dirt. The Harlows still lived next door, an outside light just visible through the trees. I parked my car at the wide mouth of my old driveway, under the low branches of a knotted tree.
The details weren’t visible in the dark, so I could only imagine the colored pottery on the front porch, the hand-painted Welcome sign that once hung from the door. The wooden chairs that had been built by my mother, the dull green paint chipping, and a low table between them.
I could picture my mom reading on the front porch. My dad with a drink and her feet in his lap. Both of them peeking up every few moments to check on me.
My own life had forked in the dead of night, right here.
But this—this was the life that should’ve been mine. My dad catching me around the waist as I ran inside—You’re a mess, he’d say, laughing. My mom shrugging, So let her be.
Memories and imagination. All that remained of the life that was taken from me.
* * *
I MUST’VE DRIFTED TO sleep in the car—the buzz of my phone jarring me awake in a panic.
I took a moment to reorient myself, curled on my side in the driver’s seat. In the daylight, this home was no longer my home. Wind chimes in place of colored pottery, the han
d-painted Welcome sign replaced with a wreath of woven vines. Bright blue metal chairs on the front porch, pops of color in the mountain landscape.
My phone buzzed again—two texts from Ben Collins.
Pick you up in a half hour.
Still need your address.
A man exited the front door, walking down the porch steps, heading for the car parked at the side of the house—but he stopped when he saw me. Changing directions, heading this way.
I responded to Detective Collins: Sorry, something came up. Meet you at the ceremony.
The man walked slowly up the drive, and I lowered the window, a thousand excuses on my tongue.
“We just moved in,” he said with a smile. He was maybe the age of my dad when he died. But he always seemed younger in my memory. “It’s not on the market anymore.”
I nodded. “I used to live here when I was a kid. Sorry. I just . . . wanted to see how it looked now.”
He looked over his shoulder. “Beautiful, isn’t it? Lot of history to the place.”
“Yes. Sorry to bother you. I was just in the area . . .”
The sun caught off the wind chimes over their porch, and he rocked back on his heels. I rolled up the window, starting the car.
Parker had taken everything from me, and I still couldn’t prove it was him. But I knew there was one more place to look, and there would be only one last chance to do it.
My heart pounded against my ribs. It was time to go. Sadie’s dedication would be starting soon.
Everyone would be there.
CHAPTER 28
I was four blocks away from Breaker Beach and barely able to find a spot. Everyone was here, I was right. The dedication would be starting soon. I took the first spot I found, then stopped inside the Sea Rose to gather everything I had—all the evidence that had led me to this point. Keeping everything in one place so I could present it all to Detective Collins after the dedication.
Slinging my bag across my chest, I headed toward the ceremony.
* * *
I SAW THEM ALL. People spilling out from Breaker Beach into the parking lot, standing on rocks behind the dunes. Cars double-parked in the street, a bottleneck of vehicles and spectators. It was a Tuesday morning, and people had given up their time, their work, their business for this. It was a show of support for a girl larger than life. It was the only thing left to give.
A crowd had gathered near the entrance to the beach, the bell at the center, words hand-chiseled in brass.
I saw Bianca standing beside Grant on a raised platform, stoic, head down. Grant’s hand was at the small of her back, and Parker stood behind them both, scanning the crowd.
The Randolphs, the Arnolds, they were all there, near the front. I kept moving through the sea of people blocking off the road. As I passed, I saw the Sylvas, the Harlows, families I’d known forever, here to pay tribute—another person lost to Littleport. The committee stood in a row behind the makeshift podium, Erica beside Detective Ben Collins, his sunglasses over his eyes, both solemn and still.
The commissioner stepped forward, and the microphone sent her voice crisp and clear. “Thank you for joining us this morning as we celebrate the life of Sadie Janette Loman, who left a mark on this town and all who knew her.”
People bowed their heads, the low murmur of voices falling to silence.
Forgive me, Sadie.
I continued on, pushing past the edge of the crowd—rounding the curve and heading up the incline of Landing Lane.
I peered over my shoulder once, but no one was in sight. No one could see where I was going.
Grant and Bianca’s car was gone—they must’ve driven down to Breaker Beach together. It was an easy walk except for the slope of the road, which made it near impossible in dress shoes.
Though I’d seen them all down at the dedication ceremony, I peered in the front windows first, hands cupped around my eyes. The lights were off, and there was no movement inside. I rang the bell, then counted to ten before using the key they’d never demanded back.
But that turned unnecessary—the door was already unlocked. The biggest lie of Littleport—a safe place, nothing to fear. As if they were saying even now: No secrets here.
“Hello?” I called as I stepped inside. My voice carried through the downstairs.
The house was deserted. But there was evidence of life. A pair of shoes at the entrance, a jacket tossed over a kitchen stool, chairs off-center in the dining room. This time I didn’t bother with the downstairs, knowing exactly what I was after.
Upstairs, I ignored the closed door of the master, the light shining into Sadie’s untouched room, heading instead for Grant’s office. The locked closet. The files.
The desk looked different from last week—the surface cleared, everything organized. As if Grant had taken his rightful spot, relegating Parker elsewhere. I opened the top desk drawer, moving the assortment of flash drives around—and panicked.
I couldn’t find any key.
Someone must’ve used it recently or hidden it. I stared out the office window and started tearing open the drawers one by one. Empty, empty, empty.
My pulse raced. In desperation, I ran my hands against the underside of the desk drawers, searching for anything. My heart jumped as my nails snagged on a metal bracket, a tiny compartment. I ran my fingers over the surface until I felt the button, and a small drawer popped forward.
I gripped the key firmly in my palm.
Leave it to Grant to put everything back where it belonged. Cleaning up the mess and disorder of his son.
Now I stood in front of that closet with purpose. Pulling out the bound files, stacking them on Grant’s desk.
Faith had never made it this far. She’d sneaked inside, just as we’d done years earlier, but this time with a purpose. She’d told me she was looking for something—anything. Something she could use against the Lomans. But she had not gotten to this. The charity files, the blueprints. The purchase details of the rental properties.
In here were only the things concerning Littleport. I knew what had irked me, had me coming back to this closet once more: a medical file. For things that must’ve happened here.
I flipped open the bound folder marked Medical. Inside were the records from private doctor visits coordinated by people like the Lomans—home visits, so they wouldn’t have to wait in the lobby of urgent care. Anything, for a price.
The first thing I saw was the record for Sadie’s strep test two summers ago. Behind that, an angry rash from a reaction to her new sunscreen. Then a cough that lingered in Grant until Bianca made the call herself, surprising him when the doctor showed up mid-workday. Courses of treatment, a history for their records.
I moved back in time, years passing, until a word grabbed my attention—stitches. It was only one sheet, scarce on details.
Parker’s name and date of birth. A diagnosis of laceration. A treatment summary. There was a note about signs to watch out for, a possible concussion. A prescription painkiller. A referral to a plastic surgeon should he need one. My hands started shaking.
And there, at the bottom, beside the doctor’s signature, was the date. Two days after my parents’ accident. As if the Lomans had tried to keep it hidden, avoid suspicion, before they realized they would have to get their son medical attention.
I wondered if that was why he had the scar—if they had waited too long, making sure the investigation was deemed a single-car accident first.
Maybe the second payment that Sadie had copied on the flash drive had gone to him, this doctor who knew that Parker had been significantly injured, and was paid, in turn, for his silence. Who was rewarded for not asking too many questions.
This was it. As close as I could get to the proof. I looked out the window, but the driveway was empty. I took a picture of this document with Parker’s injury, including the date of treatment, and I sent it to Detective Ben Collins’s number, with a note: I need to talk to you about Parker Loman.
Then I sent C
onnor a text: Is the ceremony still going on?
I checked the window again. Still no car.
I started stacking the files away again, then stopped. I didn’t care if they knew. Grant’s words in my ear, a cruel whisper—that he had overestimated me. Like Faith, I wanted them to know. Who else would know better where to look than someone they had taken into their home?
My life had diverged because of them. Everything I’d lost, because of them.
My phone dinged with a response. Not from the detective but from Connor: It’s almost over. Where are you?
I wanted to see Connor, to tell him. He may have kept Faith’s secrets, but he’d also kept mine. And after everything, he deserved to know the truth.
But I needed to find Detective Collins first, ask to speak at the police station, present everything I’d found—calmly, clearly. I didn’t know for sure who’d killed Sadie. Couldn’t prove yet that it was Parker—but I had his motive now. The most important thing was that they believe me.
I had gathered up my things, ready to go, when a door closed somewhere in the house.
I froze, my hands hovering over the desk. I didn’t even breathe. Footsteps on the stairs, and I looked frantically for somewhere to hide. The only place hidden from view was the closet, and all of the paperwork was already out. If the footsteps veered the other way down the hall, I could make a run for it—
“Avery?” The voice was so close. A man. Not Parker. Not Grant. There was no point in hiding. Whoever it was, he was already looking for me.
And then Detective Ben Collins stood in the open office doorway, his forehead knotted in confusion. His eyes scanned the desk, my hands hovering over the top. He took a step into the room. “What are you doing in this house?”
I swallowed nothing, my throat parched. “Did you get my text?”
The Last House Guest Page 25