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A Stranger on the Beach
Michele Campbell
About the Author
A graduate of Harvard University and Stanford Law School, MICHELE CAMPBELL worked at a prestigious Manhattan law firm before spending eight years fighting crime as a federal prosecutor in New York City. You can sign up for email updates here.
She Was the Quiet One
It’s Always the Husband
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019
Copyright © Michele Rebecca Martinez Campbell 2019
Michele Campbell asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Ebook Edition © July 2019 ISBN: 9780008354510
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For Jack
Acknowledgments
This book was so much fun to write. It started its life at a lunch I had with my editor and agent where we threw around ideas and laughed and drank wine. After that, the book was charmed, and flowed like magic.
I am so grateful to work with Jennifer Enderlin, who is not only the savviest woman in publishing but a true collaborator in the writing process. Her vision lights my way through all the ups and downs of the writing process. Her ideas and influence are apparent on every page of this book. And I could not write, nor would I ever want to, without the guidance, support, and friendship of Meg Ruley, who has always had my back and nurtured my books beyond the call of duty.
I am indebted to the amazing team at St. Martin’s Press for publishing my work so brilliantly. Thanks especially to Rachel Diebel, Jordan Hanley, Brant Janeway, Kerry Nordling, Erica Martirano, and Lisa Senz, and to my wonderful publicist Jessica Preeg who works so hard to get my books out there so readers can discover them.
A million thank-yous to the fabulous crew at Jane Rotrosen Agency for being so warm and supportive, and especially to Jess Errera for everything she does to help me.
Thank you also to Crystal Patriarche and her team at BookSparks, who are just so good at publicizing books in the digital age and have brought my work to the attention of countless new readers.
Finally, as always, I’m profoundly grateful to my husband. I couldn’t write without him. He is my rock and my inspiration. Plus, he cooks!
We are only as blind as we want to be.
—MAYA ANGELOU
1
There was a stranger on the beach. He was standing in front of my house, staring at it like he was casing it to rob.
Sometimes fate sneaks up on you. But Aidan Callahan didn’t sneak up on me. He was brazen. He stood there in the middle of the sand, staring up at my brand-spanking-new beachfront house, looking like he was up to no good. I saw him clearly as I looked through the wall of windows, over the infinity-edge pool, to the ocean beyond. Yes, he was gorgeous. But I was a married woman of twenty years’ standing who loved her husband, and I barely noticed that. What I noticed was that this guy looked strong. Dangerously so. And he dressed like a townie. Baggy athletic shorts, tank top, the glint of a gold chain at his neck. People like him resented people like me, and sometimes, they robbed them. There had been a string of robberies recently, of some of the big houses. The summer people thought the local cops were dragging their feet about solving them, maybe because the culprits were local boys. When I saw Aidan standing there, those robberies were the first thing that leapt to mind, and a chill went down my spine.
I’ll tell you everything that happened, starting from the beginning. My first impression of Aidan was that he was a potential thief. If only I’d listened to my instincts, I would’ve turned and run in the opposite direction. But that’s not what I did. I walked toward him. And I will always blame myself for what came after.
2
It was a hot, sultry day, two weeks past Labor Day, and the bluff had cleared out. The summer people were all back in the city, leaving only me, and my next-door neighbor, old Mrs. Eberhardt. She lives in a saltbox shack on a wide lot that’s coveted by every real estate developer in the East End. I live in the type of place that people build after they tear down houses like hers. She has a yappy little dog that wakes me up at five thirty every morning. As you can imagine, we didn’t have much to say to one another, so basically, I was at the beach alone.
I’d been waiting around all day for the technician