Chapter 42
Summer
The morning after Dusty’s, I get up and change directly into my bikini.
We agreed to take the early part of the day off and then head into work after lunch for the final stages of party prep.
I decide to go down to the little beach by the waterway.
It’s not the same as being by the ocean, more like hanging by the river or a lake, but I just want a little time to chill before the insanity of the night.
My phone buzzes twice with missed calls from Shay, but I’m not into that today.
I haven’t listened to any of her messages for the past few days and I know she probably wants to talk about what went down at the bar last night, and I’m not interested.
I’ve got my beach bag and chair in my hands when I see Avery walking down the path from the laundry building. My eyes dart around, looking for a place to hide.
“Summer!” he calls. Damnit. His eyes light up when I turn to face him.
“Hey Avery,” I reply, not sure why this guy is always around now. It’s not the first time I’ve seen him around the trailer park, although normally I’m faster at hiding. “What’s going on?”
He holds up a paper grocery bag with handles. “My aunt lives a few rows over. She lets me use her laundry time as long as I do hers for her.”
“Makes sense.”
He shoves his hands in his pockets—he’s wearing black jeans, despite the heat. “I thought you’d be getting ready for the party.”
“We’re going in a little later. You know how it is around here—everyone needs their beach time.”
He nods and pushes his dark hair out of his eyes. “I’m excited to finally meet your mom.”
“She’s looking forward to the party. She loves meeting fans.” I make a gesture to my beach stuff. “I’ll see you tonight. I’m going to go get a little sun on my face.”
“Sure, sure,” he says, seeming a little distracted. I’ve got no idea what’s going on with this guy but I’m not hanging around to find out. “See you later.”
I’m dozing on my chair when I hear footsteps on the sand and feel a shadow hovering over me. I shade my eyes and see Shay standing over me. I’m surprised to see her in regular athletic shorts and a tank top. Her long hair is pulled back in a ponytail. She holds something in her hand. A photograph?
“Summer, I’ve been looking all over for you.”
“Ah, well, it’s my morning off. Sorry. We’ve got a long night ahead.”
“I know and I’m not trying to pester you, but I’ve wanted to catch you for the last few days. I took a chance when Avery said you may be down here.”
Snitch.
“Shay, I’m kind of done with this whole interview thing. I’d really like to just let things go from here since I’m pretty sure I’ve told you everything I know about the book.”
“This isn’t about the interview,” she says, easing to a sitting position in the sand. “The beach house rental company had a postcard sent to them, addressed to me. Actually, three postcards. Each one a threat to you and your mom.”
I sit up abruptly. “What are you talking about?”
She holds up the cards. They’re touristy images—like the ones in every souvenir shop along the coast—including Books on the Beach. “They all go into some insane babbling about the Gaskins murders.”
I take the postcards from her and look at the images.
They’re not the newer kind we sell at the shop but retro photos—original-looking.
The paper and photography looks old-fashioned.
All of the old pavilion in Myrtle Beach—the one my mother and her friends would travel down the dark, deserted road to get to at night.
Including the night they ran into Donald Gaskins.
I flip the card over and I read the messy, small script.
Ms. Merrill,
Whores. Prostitutes. Sinners. You think they deserved to live?
Gaskins may have died in the chair but his seeds of death were planted in this hot, sandy land.
Do you think those seeds didn’t take root?
That they failed to thrive? That they don’t want a piece of their ancestor’s reward?
Be careful who you write about. Be careful what side of history you’re on.
X
Shay,
Do you believe in fate? That history can be redeemed? That’s what is happening now. Life is coming full circle. Generations solving the sins of the past. Thank you for shedding light on this story. I suggest you not hit publish yet. This isn’t the end of the tale.
X
“I didn’t know what to make of the first two,” she says.
“I sent them to my editor and he told me to make you aware, but you’ve tried your damnedest to avoid me.
But the one that arrived this morning crossed the line.
” She hands it over. It’s postmarked from the day before, still from Myrtle Beach.
It’s a black and white image of two girls in old-style bikinis posing on the beach.
Shay,
Gaskins hunted by the light of the moon, by the feel of his loins, by the rage in his heart. He took what he wanted and that urge consumes me, too. This isn’t a warning. It’s a promise. Save me a spot on the front page.
X
“So a copycat? Or a wannabe killer?” I ask, ignoring the ill feeling in my stomach. “Did you tell my mom?”
She shakes her head. “Not yet.”
“She gets a lot of fan mail. Good, bad, and creepy. This obviously falls into creepy, but maybe a bit more specific than the others. She was going to talk to her agent about the ones at the store, but I don’t think any of them were this bad.
” But I wonder if I’d paid that much attention.
After a while it starts to blur together.
I would have noticed this though, right?
“Should we go to the police?” she asks.
“Probably—at least before the party tonight. Maybe have an officer onsite.”
She stands, brushing the sand off her backside.
She offers me a hand to get out of my low to the ground chair.
I take it and stand, the animosity I felt toward her when I first saw her today vanishes.
She’s now caught up in this because of me and my mom.
“Let me go change and we can go to the police station together.”
We walk together to the trailer and taped to the aluminum door is a yellow flower and a note that simply says, “Good Luck Tonight!”
“That’s sweet,” she says.
I remove the flower and note and open the door. She follows me in and I leave them on the table. “You can wait out here. I’ll do a quick change behind the curtain.”
I pull the curtain across the opening and I hear easily on the other side. “That whole thing at the bar last night was crazy. You don’t think the guy that said all that stuff to you could be writing these letters, do you? He seems to have a problem with women.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “The guys said he’s just a jerk and always has been. I’d never met him before and didn’t really get a creeper vibe off of him. Just an asshole vibe.”
She snorts. “We should probably tell the police about him, though.”
“Good idea.” I change into a T-shirt and shorts. I’m sticky from the sunscreen but a shower will have to wait. I open the curtain and see her looking at a photo of me and all the guys on the beach from last summer. Ivy took it and sent to me while I was at school.
“They seem like good friends.”
“They are.”
“And Avery’s in the group?”
I shake my head. “No, not really. I mean, I think they’ve known him forever but they don’t hang with him much. I just met him this summer.”
“Oh, okay. He’s been helpful with a lot of the myths of Donald Gaskins.
He’s super into it. Of course in a place like this it’s not hard to find people willing to talk.
Most of it’s irrelevant.” She picks up the good luck note and studies it.
Her lips turn down in a frown and she reaches in her pocket and retrieves the postcards. She holds them up to one another.
“What?”
“This lettering…it looks kind of similar.”
My heart drops to my stomach. I snatch the two from her hands.
“See the ‘g’ here and here? And the ‘t’?” She points between the two.
I feel a lump rise in my throat and I walk to my room, reaching for the few notes left on my bed. The one from when I arrived this summer and a few others. I hold them out.
“We probably shouldn’t touch them.” She looks around. “We probably shouldn’t touch anything.”
“What? Why?” I know why. He’s been in the trailer.
“Summer, we have to call the police.” She hands me my phone off the table. It’s sitting right next to the flower. “Do you want me to call your mom?”
“No, not yet.” My mind is reeling. Pete. Pete is the one that gave me the flowers. He’s the one that has a key. Is he also sending those letters? No. I refuse to believe that.
“I don’t want to call yet.”
“What?”
“Let’s wait this out until after the party, okay? My mom doesn’t need all this. The press will be there—all her fans. It’s like victimizing her all over again.”
“It seems like a risk not to do something.”
“You told your editor. Mom told her agent about the other letters. We’re aware and we’ve got a bunch of friends and family coming tonight. Nothing’s going to happen,” I plead with her. “I’ll call tomorrow, promise.”
She sighs. “Okay, but don’t stay here alone tonight.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
“Get your stuff and you can change somewhere else.” She frowns. “And hurry. I don’t want to be in here any longer than necessary.”
I look around my little camper—the one I’ve grown to love, the one that’s my home, and shiver, for the first time not wanting to be here, either.