Page 49 of Tourist Season
It takes me a moment of staring up at the decaying roof and graffitied siding to convince myself to follow the overgrown path that leads through the weedy lawn. Every step I take, the memory of vultures in a tree threatens to push me all the way back to the car. My palms sweat. My heart riots in my ears.This is my chance to protect Arthur, I tell myself over and over as I hurry over the threshold where the faded white door hangs from rusted hinges.It’s not the same house.I climb the rotting staircase to the second level.It doesn’t smell the same. Doesn’t look the same. There’s not even a cellar.
I find a loose floorboard in a bedroom on the second story and ram it with my heel until it shatters. My pulse is still humming as I take a steadying breath, and with a silent goodbye, I shove mybelongings beneath the shattered remains of the splintered wood. When I’ve snapped a quick photo with my phone, I head outside and take a last look at the house, then I drive back to town.
Once I’m parked a few blocks away from the Capeside Inn to keep Arthur’s distinctive vehicle out of sight, I head to my perch on the hill to hide among the rocks where I first watched Nolan as he left the inn for a run. His car isn’t in the parking lot now, and I try not to think about where he might have gone. “It doesn’t fucking matter what that asshole is up to,” I whisper to myself as I log in to my sock puppet account on the Sleuthseekers Discord server.
My eyes drift up to Sam’s rental car, and then to the empty spot next to it, the one that Nolan seems to prefer. Heat twists behind my navel, that ache from earlier throbbing between my legs. I wonder what would happen if I broke into Nolan’s room and waited in my lingerie for him to return. Would he turn and walk away? Or would he pin me to the bed and fuck me so hard I see stars? What if I brought my Lelo Enigma dual vibrator? What if— “Oh my fucking God. Get it together, bitch. Stop thinking with your neglected vagina and think with your brain.”
With a shake of my head, I refocus on the device in my hands, tapping out a short private message to Sam. I include the location details of the farmhouse on Clarke Road, claiming I found the items when I was snooping around the abandoned house. Once the photos are sent, I wait.
It takes only a few moments before I receive a reply, and though he seems a little hesitant at first, the excitement is still palpable despite his short messages. In less than ten minutes, Sam and his drone operator are packing up his rental vehicle and leaving the Capeside Inn.
A dark smile creeps across my lips as I jog to Arthur’s car and set off for my next destination.
You’d think the next stage of the plan would be the hardest part. But really, it’s not as much of a challenge as it seems. Sheriff Yates never likes to keep anyone longer than he must, so it’s likely the charming Mr. McMillan has already been released. And a guy like that is neither the Capeside Inn nor the bed-and-breakfast type, so chances are he’s staying in the shady Lionshead Motel just off the highway that leads into town. He’ll either be sleeping off his hangover, or he’ll be in Gus’s Tavern within walking distance of the Lionshead, drinking himself into his next oblivion.
I swing by the dumpster behind Milo’s Pizza first to grab a discarded box, then I start with the Lionshead, betting that it’s early enough in the day that he might not yet be ready for the pub. When I’m parked just out of sight of the motel, I take out my phone and select the contact for the reception desk.
“Lionshead, how can I help?” a man says after picking up on the second ring. I know by the timbre of his voice that it’s the young guy who started working there last season, and the wicked grin that’s been lodged on my face since I departed from the Capeside Inn grows a little wider. He’s the quiet type, a little shy. He’s just there to make enough to pay his rent. And he doesn’t give a shit about things like rules, or privacy.
“Hey, I’m the delivery driver for Milo’s Pizza,” I say, keeping my voice disaffected. “Some guy with the last name McMillan ordered delivery to the Lionshead, but Milo’s handwriting is shit and I can’t make out the room number. He’s not picking up the phone either. Can you tell me which room I’m supposed to go to so Milo doesn’t ride my ass for a late delivery?”
“Yeah, sure. Give me a second.” My smile could be seen from space. I reach toward the back seat and grab the empty pizza box along with a couple of choice goodies from my bag as the sound of keyboard tapping fills the line. “Room three-twenty.”
“Thanks so much. You’re a lifesaver.”
“You got it.”
I disconnect the line and leave the car with the pizza box in hand, my blood fizzing with adrenaline.I’m a pizza delivery driver, I tell myself as I walk around the hedges that frame the Lionshead parking lot. There are a few cars scattered in front of the motel rooms, but all the curtains are closed. There’s no one around.
My attention homes in on the door for Room 320.
I’m meant to be here. I’m just doing my job. And it’s funny how easily you can slip through society when you don’t just tell a lie, but youembraceit. If you make the effort to believe it, often everyone else does too.
I take a deep breath, dim the wicked edge in my smile to something less sinister, and knock three times on the door.
“Pizza delivery,” I call, my voice chipper. A disgruntled groan rumbles on the other side of the door. “Pepperoni with extra cheese? For … McMillan?”
A string of weary expletives and slippers dragging over tile grow louder as he approaches the door. My expression brightens as the dead bolt turns. The door swings open and McMillan glares at me, his stained T-shirt and boxers barely covered by a fraying gray robe. “I didn’t order no fuckin’ pizza—”
I lift the pizza box enough that he can see the gun I hold beneath it, the silencer aimed at his navel. Surprise ignites in his bloodshot eyes.
“Come with me, Mr. McMillan,” I say, releasing the safety with a threatening click, “and I might just let you live.”
FATHOMSNolan
IT’S NEARLY NOON.ANDI’Mstanding on the street outside Harper’s cottage like a fucking obsessed loser.
I push the sleeves of my charcoal-gray Henley up to my elbows. She likes my forearms. I think. She stares at them a lot. Unless I’m fucking delusional, which … probably tracks. She seems to like these tactical work pants I wear sometimes, too. “Is that part of your uniform?” she’d asked a few nights ago, gesturing to my trousers and work boots.
“I don’t really have a uniform other than a vest and jacket, but … I guess so.”
I still feel the heat beneath my skin from the way her gaze dropped down the length of me a fraction slower than what would be deemed appropriate for a nemesis, unless she was searching for the most painful place to knife me. “Hmm,” was all she’d said before returning to her work. But I still caught the little glance she tossed my way.
I brush away the nonexistent dust from my clothes. Maybe she’ll like what she sees? It shouldn’t matter, but increasingly, it feels like it does.
This is stupid. Leave her alone.
With a frustrated sigh, I turn away as though I’ll actually manage to convince myself to walk back to the Capeside Inn. And then I turn again, facing her house once more.
