Page 15 of The Beach Trap

And there it is again, that voice in my head:My life is about to change forever.

•••

I make itacross the bridge, allowing my GPS app to lead me onto Old 98, toward the address Mr.Callahan gave me. My stomach flutters with excitement and nerves. My father spent so much time here as a child and as an adult, and yet I have no memory of him telling me about it. It makes me realize, once again, how little I knew about him; his presence loomed so large in my childhood, but in reality, he played only a small role in my life.

Ilivedfor his visits when I was a kid. The rest of the world ceased to exist when he showed up; my mom would take off work and all her usual stress would fade away. At bedtime, he’d make up stories for me about a brave princess who saved the kingdom from attacking dragons, then tuck me in and say,I love you so much, Blake. Never forget that.

I have one distinct memory of sitting on the couch between my parents long after a movie ended, snuggled under a blanket, pretending to be asleep so I could stay right there. I remember opening my eyes a sliver and seeing my father press a gentle kiss to my mother’s mouth, gazing at her like she was his entire world.

It was all such absolute bullshit.

The voice on my GPS tells me that I’m only a mile away. Shaking off those memories, I roll down the windows and inhale the salty air. Behind me, the dog runs back and forth across the back seat; he’s excited, too.

Palm trees line the two-lane street, and every so often, there’s a gap between the hotels and condo complexes, giving me a glimpse of the striking green waters of the Gulf. As I get closer, the street becomes lined with gigantic beach houses in white or pastel, many of them three or four stories tall, gleaming in the setting sun.

Granddad would’ve loved to see this; since he specialized in home renovations, one of his hobbies was to drive around neighborhoods and look at the houses. He would’ve gotten a kick out of this place, so different from the practical midwestern architecture of the homes back in Minnesota.

I slow as I approach the address given to me by the estate lawyer: 3466... 3472... 3478. Each house is nicer than the one before. I hold my breath as the beach house,mybeach house, comes into view.

“Your destination is on the right,” the GPS voice tells me, and I slow and turn into a driveway.

I park and look at the house.

And blink.

And blink again.

•••

Dilapidated. Ramshackle. Broken-down.

Those are the best words to describe this place. It’s a two-story pale yellow house with worn-out siding desperately in need of paint. The porch steps are practically falling off. Weeds have overgrown the flower beds. One of the upstairs windows is broken and boarded up.

This can’t be the right place.

Shaking my head in disbelief, I pull up the email from Scott Callahan to check the address. I must have entered it incorrectly into the GPS. But no, it’s the same.

My heart falls like a brick into my stomach. This cannot be happening. Mr.Callahan overnighted me a package with the keys, and I pull those out of my canvas tote and head to the door. The steps wiggle in a frightening way as I walk up them, and I’m half worried they might crumble under my weight.

I say a silent prayer that my key won’t fit, but when I slide thekey into the keyhole, it goes in smoothly. Holding my breath, I walk in, hoping the inside is nicer than the outside. But as I flick on the lights, the dog scampering past me into the house, my heart drops all the way to my toes.

Somehow, it’s even worse.

The walls are covered with old-fashioned wallpaper, a hideous seashell print, peeling at the corners. The living room has mint-colored carpet and old wicker furniture that looks like it hasn’t been moved in fifty years. The kitchen is cramped and ugly, with dark wood cabinets and a yellow linoleum floor.

Well. I guess I should have expected that my father’s final gift to me would be nothing more than a big heap of trash.

•••

The next morning,after a long, depressing night spent sleeping on an ancient mattress that smelled like mold and stale peppermint, I’m standing in the kitchen as Harriet Beaver confirms my worst fears.

“I’m really sorry,” she says, giving me a grim smile, “but you’re not going to get much for the house in this market.”

As soon as the real estate agent walked in, dressed in her sharp blue suit with her blond bob teased to perfection, her smile froze. I knew it wasn’t going to be good news.

“You have two options,” Harriet continues. “You can either sell the place as is, basically selling it for the land, or you can renovate and get a much better price. No one is looking for fixer-uppers right now—buyers want a home that is vacation-ready.”

This doesn’t surprise me. The one good feature of the house is its location—a pristine white-sand beach just out the back door, leading to the glistening waters of the Gulf.

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