Page 35 of Tourist Season
Harper rolls her eyes, her cheeks crimson. “It’s burn ointment, you fucking weirdo,” she grits out. “And you’re making a scene. What the hell is wrong with you?”
She tosses a brittle smile toward the counter behind me and I follow her gaze. Maya pushes her glasses up her nose, her eyes as sharp as obsidian blades behind their lenses. She assesses the tension in my shoulders, the grip of my hand around Harper’s delicate wrist that I can’t seem to let go of. I give Maya a fleeting smile and an untroubled wave with the ointment in my hand before I turn my back on her and place all my attention where it feels like it belongs. On Harper.
“I don’t understand what the fuck has gotten into you,” she whispers, twisting her arm until I finally let go. My palm feels cold in the absence of her warmth. Before I can delve too deeply into why this unpleasant chill is traveling into my flesh, she rips the jar out of my hand and thrusts it into her basket.
“You burned yourself?”
She pierces me with a glare, her silver eyes shards of pure malice. “Yes, and what the hell do you care? I’m not going to have your precious book sent to the FBI because of a fucking coffee incident,” she whispers before walking away down the aisle.
I should get her a Keurig, a traitorous little voice in my head declares.
No. Iwill notbuy her a fucking Keurig, goddamnit.
“Are you …? Did you …?” I clear my throat, unsure what I’m even trying to ask. I want to know if she’s okay, but it shouldn’t matter. I want to sluice the guilt from my veins for letting it happen, but I don’t know why I feel like it’s my fault. I don’t think she appreciates my concern anyway, judging by the lethal stare she cuts me with. We’re enemies. She killed my brother. She destroyed my fucking life. Some things cannot be forgiven. Harper is clearly sticking to the brief. So why can’t I?
“Like I said. Coffee accident. But I’m surprised you didn’t know that already, seeing as how you spent the morning stalking me.”
“What?”
Harper shrugs, though there’s nothing nonchalant about it. “I figured if you went to the trouble of flying a drone over my house, you’ve probably been looking through my windows the whole time too.”
My brows draw together with confusion, but Harper barely looks at me as she makes her way down the aisle, feigning interest in different ointments and concoctions on the shelves. “I didn’t fly a drone over your house,” I say.
“Oh, really? Because you’ve spied on me with one before,haven’t you,” she whisper-snarls, not a question but an accusation. She flicks her bandaged hand in my direction and I suppress a sudden urge to snatch it out of the air so I can get a proper look atthe wound beneath the white gauze. “You were flying that thing as I was going to the gym the other morning. That’s how you got the dumbass idea about me having a crush on”—her eyes dart around us before she leans closer—“you know who.”
Fucking Jake Hornell. I would kill him again if I could. And I would take my time about it. I would make himsuffer.
I shake my head to rid it of those murderous fantasies and all the questions that threaten to arise about why it would be so fucking satisfying to do it all over again. “I swear to you, I wasn’t piloting any drone today.”
“Sure. I almost believe you.”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
“Then who was?”
“I don’t know.” I scratch my stubble, worry gnawing at my guts as Harper watches me, notes of fear hidden deep beneath her tough exterior. I did spend some time following Sam around the first couple of days. It wasn’t very enlightening. He had busied himself interviewing locals in the privacy of their homes or businesses. But when I’d been close enough to eavesdrop, the conversation centered around uncovering anything that would prove Arthur Lancaster is the infamous La Plume. He was obsessed. And judging by his furrowed brow and deep frown as he scribbled notes in a leatherbound journal, he wasn’t getting the big hit he was looking for.Yet.
So far, he’s been staying away from Lancaster Manor.
How do I know?
Because I have not been staying away from Harper Starling.
Whenever I’ve felt reasonably sure that Sam has been occupied with his interviews, I’ve let myself succumb to following Harper, as though I’m indulging in a drug I can’t say no to. I’ve hoppedthe stone wall surrounding her cottage and watched from the bushes like a proper fucking creep as she’s worked in the garden of Lancaster Manor, edging the beds, planting new flowers, trimming hedges and trees.
Other times, she’s tended to the public gardens around town. The flowers that frame theWELCOME TO CAPE CARNAGEsign. The park on Randall Road. The hanging baskets that line Main Street. She had help putting those up from a trio of guys that I recognized from the coffee shop the other day. They’re all older men wearing wedding bands, but it scratched at my nerves all the same. I could have been the one to help her. Maybe if I had, she’d let her guard down and give me enough information to figure out what she’s done with my scrapbook. Then I could get back to my real reason for being here. At least, that’s what I keep trying to tell myself.
“Sam’s drone operator,” I finally answer. Irritation crawls beneath my skin like scuttling insects. I thought I’d built enough of a rapport with Sam that he would ask me if he needed help with the drone again, but clearly I was wrong. “He must have arrived this morning, I guess.”
“You guess? I thought that was part of our deal, that you were supposed to be keeping tabs on Porter and leading him away.”
“I have been.”
Harper snorts. “Clearly.”
“Maybe I’ve been too busy withother projects.” I pick up a small bottle, Corpse Reviver Hangover Juice written above the image of a dancing skeleton on the black label. I toss it into Harper’s basket and she hits me with a vicious glare.
“You’re not the one who also has to work all day.AndI have to rebuild a fucking soapbox racer too so I can cover your ass for your little bird feeder present. You’re welcome, by the way.” She picksup several bottles of fake blood and drops them into her basket. A little spark seems to dance in her eyes just long enough to arouse my instincts for self-preservation, and then she turns her back on me to continue down the aisle. “I hope you’re enjoying your stupid fucking holiday in my town. What are you even doing with yourself all day? Aside fromnotkeeping up your end of our deal.”
