The Last House Guest(82)

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.