When I first moved from Manhattan to this small town six years ago, I worried about many things. I worried about finding a job. I worried that I’d be bored. I worried that my relationship with charming photographer Ryan Breslow was moving too fast. But I never worried about whether the ground beneath my feet would crumble—both literally and figuratively.
My marriage didn’t go as I’d imagined. A year ago, Ryan met his untimely death in a car accident that’s still under investigation. Isolated and alone, all I wanted was to sell my home and leave Crest Lake and its painful memories behind.
But with my home inching ever closer to the edge of the crumbling bluff, the property has become unmarketable. All of us on the lakefront have lost chunks of property, and tempers are at a boiling point about what to do next.
And now, on the evening of a contentious vote about how to fix this pressing issue, my nemesis on the shoreline committee has been murdered. I know how it looks, but it’s not what it seems. But I have to get my plan passed and cash out.
Because I do have secrets.
And they won’t stay buried forever.
"With a slow-burn intensity that explodes into a jaw-dropping finale, this psychological thriller is both bingeworthy and delicious. Traymore is a master of layered tension, and she left me guessing until the last page."
~ Noelle W. Ihli, #1 bestselling author of Gray After Dark
"With its high-stakes plot and complex characters, the novel is a masterclass in building tension and intrigue."
~ NetGalley
"This was a slow burn psychological suspense that heated up to a twisty, thrilling finale. A domestic thriller with a timely topic in the background. Great setting. Highly recommended."
~ NetGalley
PROLOGUE
Doug Mitchell takes in the shoreline of Lake Michigan, letting his Sundancer drift around in the currents. The sight of his house high atop the bluff reminds him of what’s at stake. The vote is tonight, and it’s sure to be a doozy of an evening. There’s a cool wind whipping up what little sand remains on the shrinking beach, and he can see the bare patch of earth where the southern stairs collapsed two years ago. But he feels safe and warm on the deck with the soon-to-be-setting sun still overhead, beaming down on him.
It’s not the same shoreline it was decades ago, but then the world is an ever-changing place. He knows this, although he doesn’t let on about it to most people. Right now, his mind is drifting to another place, and he feels a delightful stirring. He pictures the curve of her back. Her slender, graceful neck. The look on her face when he makes her moan. He takes another sip of his cocktail, closes his eyes, and sinks into it.
After a few minutes, a different kind of feeling washes over him. He’s dizzy. And tired. Way too tired. He’s barely had one drink. He opens his eyes, and the world appears blurry. He feels clumsy. Almost immobile. Shaking his head, he tries to snap out of it, but everything’s…
Fuzzy.
Confused.
Off.
He came out here alone, he thought, although he didn’t check the cabin before leaving the dock. A figure is standing on the deck now, too far away from him to make out who it is. It’s someone, though, and even with his mind dulled, he knows this isn’t good.
Seized with panic, he struggles to pull himself out of the quagmire. Finding a last burst of strength, he attempts to spring up and go on the offensive, but his legs are like rubber. His body rocks forward a bit, accomplishing nothing.
He sinks back into oblivion as the figure approaches.
You?
ONE
Kate
I arrive five minutes late, breathless from my run in from the parking lot. The proceedings haven’t started yet. I rush in, whip off my scarf and coat, and take a seat.
Just in time.
The stage is set for a contentious evening. Tonight, the town council will vote on the pressing issue of the failing bluff. I head up the shoreline committee, and I’ve been invited here this evening to present my plan, one of two the board will consider.
“Hi Kate,” the board member next to me says. “Glad you made it.”
She gives my shoulder a squeeze, confirming that I’ve got her vote.
“Of course,” I say. “Sorry I’m late.”
A tingling sensation creeps up my spine, and a feeling of dread squeezes my stomach like a vise. Perhaps it’s the weather. It’s early fall, but it may as well be the dead of winter. It’s bitter cold and gray, with intermittent downpours. The howling wind whipping off Lake Michigan has been keeping me up at night. It’s the same kind of weather we were having when my husband met his untimely death a year ago, which is likely stirring up some buried feelings. A widow at forty-one. Not the way I expected my life to go when I moved here six years ago.
“The meeting of the Crest Lake Township board of directors is now in session,” the president proclaims, banging his gavel with the countenance of a man desperate for power and relevance. Sam Bolger’s his name.
Sam takes role, and it’s lost on nobody that Doug Mitchell is absent. I fiddle with a strand of hair, twirling it between my fingers. It looks darker in this light, almost auburn. My eyes search the room, and hushed tones fill the silence as people whisper to each other.
Where the hell is Doug?
Are we really going to start without him?
I hope he’s okay.
His allies look concerned, naturally, but even his opponents seem troubled, although that could be an act. It would be unacceptable to show their glee, in the event they were feeling it. But I’m not feeling smug or excited or victorious. I’m feeling nervous. Doug is scheduled to present the opposing plan, and there’s no way he would miss this meeting.
Tempers have been flaring over the issue of what to do about the eroding bluff. The police had to be called during the last public hearing. And there have even been a few death threats, anonymous posts that most of us brushed off.
Silly, really. We’re all on the same team, trying to fight mother nature. Desperate to give ourselves the illusion of control. Struggling to keep our large, lakefront luxury homes from plummeting onto the shrinking shoreline that hugs the massive body of water eighty feet below the fragile bluff.
On some level, we all know that whatever we do will only be a stop-gap in the big picture of geological time, and I can’t help but wonder if that’s what’s making people so angry. Humanity’s stubborn insistence that we can bend the planet to our will. Because it’s obvious that we can’t, and perhaps it’s easier to blame each other than to face the realization that humans are at the mercy of forces we don’t really understand and can no longer control.
The president seems to be stalling, fumbling with his computer as he tries to pull up the agenda and project it onto the TV screen. The board member to my right shares a theory with me. Perhaps Doug’s pulling a stunt for dramatic effect, she whispers in my ear. Maybe the president’s in on it—he’s on Doug’s side—and Doug will come bursting in at the last minute, waving some new study in his hands. But after a few moments, it’s clear to everyone that’s not going to happen.
Sam tables the vote for the time being and moves on to other issues. The board gets to work. There are a handful of mundane items on the agenda aside from the one that matters to me. What to do about the shoreline. I wait patiently as the board members work through other business, waiting for Doug’s arrival. He’s a board member and I’m not, and I’m surprised that they didn’t ask me to sit outside.
I wonder what will happen if he doesn’t show. Will they postpone the vote, or will it go my way by default, with my proposal the only option? Item after item is addressed, and I can feel my pulse starting to race as they tick them off.
Parcel tax proposal.
New library budget.
Changes to the vacation rental rules.
My stomach is in knots. Because if the vote goes my way, it will be a Pyrrhic victory, inflicting massive economic consequences on my lake front neighbors. Doug’s plan to simply shore up the bluff at the toe, the spot where the waves hit and wear it down, is the simple one. The less expensive one. But it’s got the environmental groups up in arms. They’ve grown increasingly vocal over the last few years.
The environmentalists want to force the removal of all existing seawalls, like the one Doug Mitchell installed in front of his home, and ban all such structures. Let nature take its course. Force lakefront owners to move back their homes or demolish them if they are in danger of falling off the bluff. But none of them are on the shoreline committee, and none are on the board. And they’ll be upset whichever way it goes tonight.
My plan is a compromise of sorts. But if I win, there will be consequences. Expensive ones that will dramatically reduce some people’s property values and limit beach access for everyone. And lots of visceral anger, much of it directed at me, especially from my wealthy lakefront neighbors who will absorb most of the cost. Several million dollars, split between ten of us. Sweat beads form at my temples as the minutes tick along to the rhythm of the cheap wall clock mounted above my seat.
Why do they keep it so hot in here?
The council meets at the town center, a small, institutional structure that used to serve as a middle school. The chairs are small and uncomfortable. I sit up and twist from side to side, trying to stop my lower back from cramping up. After an hour or so, there’s nothing left on the agenda but the bluff, and I’m wondering if they’ll postpone my presentation and the vote.
A knock at the door startles us.
Police, a voice calls out.
The door opens, and a young officer enters tentatively, crouching his way into the room. It’s a tight community, and he’s likely a bit intimidated. We’re a powerful bunch. If he ran into one of us around town, I imagine he’d be deferential. But this isn’t a coffee shop or a grocery store, and this isn’t a social call.
After a moment, he straightens up, and his face registers the requisite look of authority. “Doug Michell’s been reported missing,” he says. “He went out on his boat earlier today and never returned. The Coast Guard is conducting a search.”
My stomach sinks, and gasps echo around the room. We all sit with the shocking news for a few moments as the officer bites his lower lip.
He continues. “We’re going to need to interview all of you. Detective Whittaker is on his way. Please stay seated and be patient.”
And with that, the vote is delayed.
***
Travis Whittaker leans back in his chair, eyeing me. I can see tension lines in the detective’s forehead. He seems to have aged since I last saw him, although his thick, dark head of hair reveals few strands of gray. It’s his eyes. They look heavy and full, like the weight of the world sits behind them.
He’s been working his way through the group, and I’m second-to-last. It would have been better to get it over with. Waiting around only increased the tension. Nobody really knew what to say to each other, so there was nothing but awkward silence filling the space between us as we stood in the hallway waiting for our turns to go in and be interviewed.
“So, Ms. Breslow. You arrived five minutes late,” he says.
“I just said that,” I reply, immediately regretting my sharp tone.
The detective’s nostrils flare, ever so slightly. He’s an attractive man for his age—early fifties or so—with a neatly trimmed beard and dark, haunting eyes. Right now, though, he looks menacing.
“Yes. I was about five minutes late,” I say, in a softer tone. My throat feels as if it’s about to close.
He narrows his eyes on me and I look away. I catch myself absent-mindedly stroking my neck and stop myself, placing my hands on the table top.
This feels all too familiar.
“And why were you late?”
“The rain,” I offer. “It got heavy when I was driving down Lakeside.” I tap my fingers on the table top as I search for something to add. “I had to drive more slowly.”
He nods and jots something down on his notepad. Almost everyone at the meeting had to drive down that road in the rain. It’s not a very good excuse, but it’s all I can give him.
“Did Doug Mitchell give you any indication that he was planning to miss the meeting tonight?” he asks.
“No, not at all,” I say. “We were all shocked when he didn’t show up tonight.”
“Have you heard from him today?” he asks.
I shake my head no.
“When’s the last time you had any contact with him?” he asks.
I look off to the side, struggling to keep myself focused and calm. I turn back to him. “In person?” I ask.
“In general,” Whittaker replies.
“We’ve been on the same email and text chain over the last week or so. Exchanging information, in anticipation of the vote.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
I swallow. He’s already seen our text stream, I assume. “Yesterday. Around seven in the evening.”
“Was that an email or a text?”
“It was a text.”
“And what did it say?”
I pull up my phone, hold it in my palm, and let him read the exchange. His eyes rest on my last line to Doug Mitchell.
If you do that, I’ll bury you.
It would have been less stressful for me if Whittaker’s face had registered some kind of surprise. Instead, he closes his notepad and puts his pen down. I struggle to keep a neutral look on my face. Then he informs me that I can leave and asks me to send in the next board member.
I start for the door but then turn back to him. “In paperwork,” I offer. “I meant I’d bury him in paperwork.” Then I turn away again and continue to the door.
“Don’t leave town,” he calls out. “We’re sure to have more questions as the investigation develops.”
I nod and keep walking.
***
As my car winds up the dark, curvy road to my lakefront home, I struggle to steady my shaking hands. This night already had me on edge, and I can feel my pulse racing as I reach the bend in the road, near the top. The part where the drop-off is the steepest. They replaced the guardrail with another one that looks exactly the same.
What was the point of that?
Sometimes I can ignore it and drive right past. On sunny days, when the sky is bright and the birds chirp and all is well in the universe. It looks so different in the daylight. But tonight is foggy and foreboding, and I drive slowly. So slowly, I’d probably get a ticket if an officer was behind me. I don’t look to my right though, because then I have to picture it, and imagine the look of terror on his face as he plunged through the rail and over the side.
What was he thinking?
Or was he not thinking at all?
Did he scream?
Or was there no time?
A chill runs up my spine as I turn carefully around the bend and breathe a sigh of relief. Sometimes, I get a sensation that he’s in the car with me, and I can almost feel his breath on my neck. And now Doug’s missing, and I have no idea what to do next or what this means for me and my shoreline plan. All I know is I have to sell my house get out of this town, before I lose my mind.
Or worse.
***
Excerpt from The Bluff by Bonnie Traymore. Copyright 2024 by Bonnie Traymore. Reproduced with permission from Bonnie Traymore. All rights reserved.
Bonnie Traymore is the Amazon International Bestselling author of six domestic/psychological thrillers. Her "popcorn thrillers" feature strong but relatable female protagonists who peel back the layers of suburban American life and give readers a peek inside. The plots explore difficult topics such as jealousy, infidelity, murder, and the impact of psychological disorders, but she also includes bits of romance and humor to lighten the mood from time to time. She's an active status member of International Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America.
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