The surge in the marrow of his bones, the fulcrum on which his life balanced, as he pushed Ben Collins backward and the gun fell from his grip, hitting the rock.
A shot, ricocheting up. A sound that split the silence, that gave us all pause. A flock of birds rising at the same time as all our lives shifted—the tipping point. I saw it first in the widening of Ben Collins’s eyes. The desperate reach of his empty hands toward me. His feet stumbling once, twice, as the momentum carried him backward, into the air.
I watched. The color of his shirt disappearing over the edge. And then nothing, nothing, nothing more. Just the sound of the water colliding with the rocks below.
And that was when I heard the scream.
And saw all the people of Littleport, gathered below on the beach, turn our way, to bear witness.
CHAPTER 30
In the distance, a buoy bell tolled. A hawk cried, circling above. The water crashed in a surge against the rocks. Time kept moving.
“It was an accident,” Parker said, sliding to the ground as the people came running.
All these accidents.
The first officer arrived on the bluffs, racing from the road, calling for others to get back.
There were shouts from below, people wading into the water from the beach. But it was too late, and we all knew that.
“No one move,” the policeman said as he took in the scene. I recognized him then—Officer Paul Chambers, the other man who had interviewed us last year.
Officer Chambers looked at the house in the distance, the smoke rising. Then at Parker, heaving on the ground, holding his arm.
“He killed Sadie,” Parker said. “He was going to hurt Avery.” Looking at me, pleading. A negotiation, even then. “He had a gun. I had to do it. I had to stop him.”
Never had I felt such power, in the moments he held his breath, and everyone was watching. I did not confirm, I did not deny.
I felt Parker’s gaze on the side of my face. Heard his desperate whisper. Please.
“No more talking, Parker.” That was Grant, his voice cutting through the spectators’ in warning.
There were faces I knew in the crowd. The Sylvas, the Harlows, the Lomans—Grant was on his phone as Parker sat there, holding his arm. Connor pushed his way to the front of the group, but another officer had arrived, keeping everyone back. There were sirens. More shouts from below. A directive to move the cars, move the people—that emergency vehicles could not get through. Behind us, the smoke had reached the open balcony doors of the second floor, billowing out.
The Loman house was burning, someone was dead, and we were still on the ledge.
“You killed my parents,” I said. Loud enough that others could hear. Not only Officer Chambers but the people who had gathered, watching. Connor, Faith, Grant and Bianca.
Parker winced, shaking his head, though we both knew the truth.
“I know you did. And Sadie is dead because she found out, too.” All these people I’d lost could be traced back to him, and I wanted him to pay.
Parker kept shaking his head. He remained silent, as his father had instructed. Even as he was told to stand. Even as the handcuffs clinched behind his back. Parker’s eyes drifted side to side as he was led through the crowd, as if desperate for someone to fix this.
He went quietly, head lowered. A man, just like any other.
* * *
AT THE STATION, I gave them everything. But I had lost so much to both the fire and the sea.
The evidence had burned. My phone. The flash drive. It was all gone. But I’d copied the file of the flash drive to my laptop. And I’d transferred Sadie’s photos from her phone as well. Officer Chambers looked surprised at the mention of Sadie’s phone—it seemed that Ben Collins had kept this information to himself, never mentioning the discovery of the phone to anyone else.
I didn’t know whether it was enough, the things we had left.
* * *
AFTER, I STOOD IN the lobby of the police station with nothing. My car and my laptop would have to stay with them as evidence. I asked the receptionist to use the phone, but I couldn’t think of a single number by heart.
“Avery.” I turned at the sound of Connor’s voice. Saw the truck behind him through the glass windows, parked haphazardly, like he’d been waiting.
I didn’t ask where we were going as I buckled myself in—didn’t know where to go right then. But when Connor turned up the overlook, I knew.
He parked in the gravel lot of the B&B, turned off the engine. A box of my things was already on the front porch. Connor pushed his door open but paused before stepping out.
“End of the season, there’s always room.”
SUMMER
2019
First Day of Summer
Through the open windows, I could hear the waves crashing against the rocks. The wind blowing in off the coast, the leaves rustling overhead.
Sunlight flickered through the open curtains as the branches swayed above.
I took down the glasses, pulled out the bottles and the plates of food from the fridge. Shook out the cushions, dragged a few extra chairs around back. Getting everything ready.
They’d be arriving soon, up the drive of Landing Lane.
* * *
THE HOUSE COULD NOT be salvaged. It shouldn’t have been built in the first place. Sadie had hinted at this years ago: It wasn’t safe. Not something this size, that stretched beyond the easements. They’d paid someone off around the permits the first time. It would not happen again.
There’s still a footprint if you know where to look. Where the grass is a finer, paler green. A slight dip in the dirt where the pool used to be.
But from the guesthouse, it’s just a quirk of nature, a clearing of trees before the rocks. A stunning, unobstructed view that greets me each morning.
A reward, for a risk.
* * *
I HEARD, THROUGH OTHERS in town, that Parker had worked out a deal. Heard he was confined to house arrest. Heard he wore an ankle monitor. Heard he was removed from the company.
Most of these were probably rumors. All I cared was that he was gone. And that they would not be coming back.
In the winter, after I sold the plots on the overlook, I offered a low but fair price for this property. It’s not like anyone could rebuild up here. Only the guesthouse was set back per the guidelines. But that was all I needed.
I took this property for the view itself, looking out over all of Littleport and everything I’d ever known.
My one regret is I didn’t get to see Grant’s face when he realized what I had done.
* * *
IN THE WINTER OF last year, I’d sold everything I had to the Sylvas. A strip of plots up on the overlook that I’d been holding on to for myself. All hidden under the name of an LLC.
I’d started investing years earlier with the money from the sale of my grandmother’s house. Cash from the Lomans themselves when they bought my grandmother’s place. Bianca was the only one who ever asked where my money had gone. Grant, it seemed, wasn’t paying attention.
There was nothing in my contract with the Lomans that prevented me from setting out on my own. Making my own investments. So I took that first sum and invested it with a small group in a plot of land a few towns up the coast.
We’d flipped it, each took our share of the proceeds, kept moving.
I had an eye for it and the guts to do it. And apparently, those were the two main ingredients of success. To risk everything for a chance.
It was the start of a new season in Littleport, and we were here today to toast the beginning of something—a joint venture with Faith, renting out their new properties.
Greg Randolph had once called me Sadie’s monster, but he was wrong. If I were anyone’s monster, I supposed, I was Grant’s.
Taking everything he’d taught me, investing that initial money with no fallback. Risking everything, over and over, on investment properties in towns up and down the
coast. Believing there was something that would keep people coming—the power of the ocean, the vastness of it, the secrets it promised—and they did.
It was reckless, maybe, with no fallback, and no promises.
But Littleport has always been the type of place that favors the bold.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to everyone who helped see this project from its earliest idea to the final book:
My agent, Sarah Davies, for all of the wonderful support, on this and every book.
My editors, Karyn Marcus and Marysue Rucci, for the sharp insight, guidance, and encouragement at every step along the way, from first idea to finished product. And to the entire team at Simon & Schuster, including Richard Rhorer, Jonathan Karp, Zack Knoll, Amanda Lang, Elizabeth Breeden, and Marie Florio. I’m so fortunate to get to work with you all!
Thank you also to my critique partners, Megan Shepherd, Ashley Elston, and Elle Cosimano, for all of your feedback and support.
And lastly, as always, to my family.
More from the Author
The Perfect Stranger
All the Missing Girls
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
© CHRISTINE WATLEY PHOTOGRAPHY
Megan Miranda is the author of the national bestsellers All the Missing Girls and The Perfect Stranger. She grew up in New Jersey, graduated from MIT, and lives in North Carolina with her husband and two children. Follow @MeganLMiranda on Twitter and Instagram, or @AuthorMeganMiranda on Facebook.
www.meganmiranda.com
SimonandSchuster.com
Authors.SimonandSchuster.com/Megan-Miranda
@simonbooks
ALSO BY MEGAN MIRANDA
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Vengeance
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Interior design by Lewelin Polanco
Jacket design by Pete Garceau
Jacket Images: Water Drops by Ozgurdonmaz/Istock/Getty Images; Windowpane by Red_Moon_Rise/Getty Images; Seascape by Shayes17/Getty Images
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Miranda, Megan, author.
Title: The last house guest / Megan Miranda.
Description: First Simon & Schuster hardcover edition. | New York : Simon & Schuster, 2019.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018055887| ISBN 9781501165375 (hardback) | ISBN9781501165382 (trade paperback)
Subjects: LCSH: Murder—Investigation—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Suspense. |
FICTION / Contemporary Women. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3613.I755 L37 2019 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018055887
ISBN 978-1-5011-6537-5
ISBN 978-1-5011-6539-9 (ebook)
The Last House Guest Page 27