Page 34 of Tourist Season
After the first night when I swam through the frigid current of the Ballantyne River, I bought a laser measurer so we could just point it at the rock across the water and have the correct distance in a matter of seconds. I convinced myself it was for me, so that I wouldn’t have to brave another night swim. But when I picked her up that night to drive us there, I kept thinking about the way she watched me as I undressed. The way her gaze slid over me like the caress of fingertips in the dark. I could feel it, even when I looked away. I thought about the way she chewed the corner of her lip. Maybe I shouldn’t have wanted her thoughts on me for a second night. Or a third, or a fourth. But I did, and I still do.
The laser measurer has stayed in my new backpack, the box unopened.
The next day, I bought Harper a better-quality shovel. I told myself it would make the whole experience of digging up bodies much faster. We only have a little over two weeks left before theland sale is complete, and we’ll still need to cover our tracks when we’re done. Actually, I got the new shovel because it has a sharp and pointed end. Since she insists on walking home every night with a sack of bones slung over her shoulder, I figured she should at least have something she can use as a weapon in case another Jake Hornell comes along. Fucking creep.
Maybe I should have more seriously considered that she could use said shovel on me. But every time I think about her watching me undress to swim, I don’t believe she would. She might be uneasy around me, but I don’t think it’s purely because of the threats I’ve made or the kind of man she knows I am.
Yesterday, I got her bear spray. What if a shovel isn’t the best weapon? I don’t want her within striking distance of a fucking bear. The thought of its claws raking through her skin makes a twinge of nausea swirl in my stomach. I didn’t tell her that when I gave it to her, of course. I blamed it on the book in her possession, which she was pretty clear would go to the authorities if anything happens to her, and she’s brash and smart enough to back up that promise. I’m not about to call her bluff. “I don’t want to go to jail if you’re mauled by a wild animal,” I’d said as I thrust the can of bear spray in her direction as though it was an inconvenience and not a gift. “Don’t let anything get close.”
She’d scrutinized the can as though there might be explosives hidden inside before she finally said a quiet “thank you” and slid it into her jacket pocket. And then, with the bag of bones slung over her shoulder like a sack of vegetables from the farmer’s market, she said her curt goodbye and slunk off into the night. I watched her go, berating myself for not walking with her, and cursing myself even more for worrying about the woman who ruined my life.
The problem is, every time I remind myself of how she rippedBilly from me, or how she broke my bones and shattered my existence, or how she drove away and left me to die alone on the road, insidious questions rise through the murk of latent rage:
What if she didn’t ruin it? What if she gave me a purpose when I had none?
“That’s stupid,” I say aloud as I place a mosquito repellent device back on the shelf. A woman pushing a toddler in a stroller crinkles her nose at me with a look of distaste. I give her a sheepish smile and a nod, placing the device back into my cart. Her eyes only narrow as she passes me and continues down the aisle. I pick up a box of extra repellent cartridges and look for the next items on my mental list. A tarp. An expedition-sized backpack. A brighter lantern than her current one. Is that too much?
I pick up a little Coleman stove at the end of the aisle. Fuck it. I don’t have to give it to her. I can keep it for myself. Maybe I’ll make hot chocolate and drink it all myself in some petty-ass move to antagonize her. She’s pretty fucking adorable when her feathers are ruffled.
No, she is not.
My fingers tighten around the box before I shove the stove into my cart.
I find the rest of the items I’m looking for and pay before heading to my rental vehicle to place them in the trunk. It’s early afternoon and still sunny, but it’s supposed to turn into a miserable evening with a cold rain by the time we’re out looking for the next burial site. We’ve been making good progress so far, a body every night. Harper works hard. She never complains, never balks at the late hours or the tedious labor or the persistent insects, not even when a huge June bug pinged off her headlamp and fell into her top. She screeched and flapped and turned away to fish it out of her bra, then merely switched her light off and kept working inthe moonlight. “Cheeky fucker,” she’d muttered as I pressed my lips together to kill my smile in case she looked my way. “Could have bought me a drink first.”
I swallowed a laugh, but only barely.
Even now, as I slide into the driver’s seat, I catch a glimpse of my smile in the rearview mirror.
“Shut the fuck up,” I growl at my reflection before I key the engine and pull away from the curb.
I turn the corner onto Main Street. Harper is still at the forefront of my thoughts when I catch sight of her dark hair and her now-familiar gait as she enters Maya’s Magical Mixtures, and I slip into an empty spot along the road before I even fully realize what I’m doing.
I could drive away. Go about the rest of my day like what she does is none of my business right now, at least not until our deal is done. Some separation would probably do me some good, so my obsession with her doesn’t fully rule every waking hour like it already does my dreams.
I’m jogging across the street before I give my protests another thought.
I try not to linger at the missing person flyer stapled to the telephone pole outside the shop, Jake Hornell’s name in block letters and his smiling face grinning back at me. A coil of rage tightens beneath my ribs before I refocus on my destination, and I slow my steps to watch through the bay windows as Harper moves through the space, the handle of a basket tucked against her elbow as she heads to an aisle that saysFIRST AID. She picks up a jar to examine the label. There’s a bandage covering the back of her left hand.
In my next heartbeat, I’m yanking open the door and striding toward her.
“What the fuck isthis?” I hiss as I catch her wrist and loom overher. Surprise ignites in her eyes, brightening to a flame of white-hot irritation.
“Hello to you, too, psycho stalker.” She tries to tear her arm from my grip, but I don’t let go. “What the hell is wrong with you—”
“What is this? Did something happen last night?”
“I—”
“Was it on the walk home? I fucking told you I’d drive you—”
“It wasn’t—”
“Did someone do this to you? Was it a wild animal? Why didn’t you use your bear spray?”
“On a fucking coffee pot?”
I blink at her, then pull the jar from her grasp, turning it to read the label. “Crispy Skin Burns and Blisters …?”
