Page 27 of Tourist Season
“From one murder bag to the next,” I say aloud as I sit on one of the overstuffed couches and drop it at my feet. “What the hell have I done with my life?”
It’s definitely not what I ever expected. I had a good home. A happy childhood. I thought I’d have a normal life. But the universe loves to prove you wrong. One day, it upends everything. One day, you might even wind up captured by a serial killer and thrown in his cellar as the universe really says, “Fuck your expectations.”
And now, here I am, pulling Arthur’s “grim-noire” from his bag of tricks.
“Chrissakes. This is so …Arthur.” I run my fingers across the title stamped into the soft leather, each letter embossed with gold that Arthur must have pressed into the calligraphy himself. This is the first time I’ve ever dared to take a very close look at his prized record of names and dates and manners of death. I flip open the worn cover. Inside, there are recipes for poisons. Notes for noxious gasses. Ratings for weapons, methods of decomposition. Over many years, he’s detailed the disposal of each body, with locations marked with numbers on maps of his properties.
I flip to the one for the parcel of land at the Ballantyne River.
I’m pretty sure blood stops coursing through my body.
I close my eyes and expel a long, resigned breath. “I’m so fucked.”
My gaze tracks up to the chessboard on the little table by the unlit hearth.
Stalemate.
His voice surfaces again.
I close my eyes and press them into the heels of my palms.
“Neither of us won,” his voice echoes in time.
“Let me lose this time, Adam,” I remember saying. It was that day we waited for a tow truck to come and collect our broken-down vehicle from a deserted dirt road. I can still smell the smoke of palo santo burning in the half-moon incense holder that Adam loved, the one that lived on top of the tiny wood-burning stove in the van we called home. It was the day our lives shattered and splintered and collapsed around us.
Sometimes, it feels like the five years that have elapsed since then never existed. Not when I hear his voice so clearly in my mind.
“I’ll always lose for you.” Adam’s words were warmed by his ever-present grin as he tipped his king over on the chessboard, forfeiting to me like he always did when there were no moves left in the game.
It was just a moment later when a knock rapped three times on our sliding door.
I force my eyes open, willing myself away from a time I keep pushing away, one that will drown me, if I let it. I stare at the pieces, set up and ready for a new game. Just stare and stare, one deep breath after the next, until the memory of Adam’s smile finally fades.
I need to keep my promises. The one I made to Adam, to never give up hope. The one I made to Arthur, to protect this town.
The ones I’ve made to myself.
I force my attention back to the book splayed out on my lap. I’m still staring down at the map when I pull my phone from my pocket, barely glancing away long enough to hover my thumb over the new contact.Ballmeat Guy.
I press it and put the call on speaker.
In two rings, I receive a heartwarming greeting from Nolan Rhodes. “Who is this?”
“Who do you think?” I resume staring down at my near future, drawn in ink and brown splotches that look suspiciously like old blood. I raise the book close to my face and squint at the droplets, then give it a tentative sniff. The scents of ink and leather lift from the page, a mustiness lingering like a phantom in the fibers of the deckle-edged cotton paper. I crinkle my nose. “What is it about these men and their books of blood and skin?”
“What did you say?”
I roll my eyes, closing the grim-noire and setting it next to me on the couch. “Still want your precious scrapbook back?”
“You know, I do have other shit to do. You can’t just say ‘scrapbook,’ and I’ll come rushing to your door.”
“We both know that’s a lie. You came here for me. To make me into one of your little tannery trophies. And now that I have your trophy case, the way I see it, you have time at your disposal.”
“So you expect the whole world to revolve around you. Color me shocked.”
I bite down on a sharp retort. That urge to tell him he doesn’t know who he’s talking to slips between my enamel until I swallow it down. My gaze slides back to the chessboard. No matter how far I try to get away from the person I used to be, she’s still there, ready to claim a past I’ve tried to wash away. But I haven’t
kept her hidden for this long just for someone like Nolan Rhodes to bring her to the surface.
