Page 52 of Tourist Season
And Harper Starling is ready for a meal.
I can feel the rage surging from Harper, charging the air around us until she can’t contain it. Jaw clenched, she drops the ax to the grass, marching past me to the spike aerator. She picks it up and stops at the man’s side.
“Did you know that the nurse you pushed over has been receiving IVF treatment for longer than I’ve been in Cape Carnage?” she snarls to the man as she raises the device to bring it down on his back with a sickening thwack. The spikes lodge into his flesh, his scream leaking around his gag. But Harper is merciless. She closes her grip around the metal handle and guides the roller from the base of his spine to his shoulder, laying down a fresh row of punctures that weep rivers of crimson. “Seven years.Seven fucking yearsof injections and tests and God knows whatever else she and her husband had to endure to make that baby. And you nearly took it away, you fucking piece of shit.” Her voice is nothing like I’ve ever heard from her. She struggles to keep it steady beneath her fury and the threat of tears, and somehow, that hint of vulnerability makes her even more terrifying. “You’re just another shitty tourist who thinks he can waltz into my town and hurt whoever he wants. As long as you’re ‘having a good time,’ nothing else matters, right? So tell me, Mr. McMillan, are youhaving a good timeyet?”
Harper lifts the tool off the man and stares down at him for a long moment, her back and shoulders heaving with deep breaths as she seems to force herself into a calmer state. I’m considering approaching her when she runs her forearm across her eyes, tilts her head side to side, then turns and tosses the aerator on the ground. Blowing a puff of air into her sweaty bangs, she flashes me a brittle smile and walks calmly back in my direction, leaving the injured man to sob and shake alone.
“So,” she says, bending to retrieve her ax. When she straightens, she fixes her hair with a bloody glove, a slight tremor shaking her fingers. She squares her shoulders, tipping her chin up. “As you can see, I’m having a very busy day, but I can assure you I’ll be at the river tonight. You can run along now to do … whatever it is you do here in Cape Carnage.”
I open my mouth to say something, but not a single word lands on my tongue. I’m not exactly sure what to make of this situation. I assess the scene. First there’s Harper, who looks fucking adorable with her cropped shirt that just barely covers the bottoms of her breasts and those baggy overalls, feral but focused determination bright in her eyes. Then there’s the guy, set up like he’s cosplaying a medieval torture scene at a Renaissance fair that’s taken itscommitment to authenticity a little too far. My eyes land next on the raven, who boldly hops close enough to snag a flap of loose skin off the man’s mangled back as he lets out an agonized cry.
Dear God.
I knew Harper was game for some fucked-up shit given the situation with Arthur, but I have clearly underestimated her. And while the fact that she’s into a little torture and murder should give me more reason to return to the idea of seeking vengeance against her, it’s having the opposite effect. It takes every last shred of my resolve not to grab her and press her to me. To reassure her that the darkness she nurtures is safe with me. But I can tell she’s not ready. It’s in the way her brows knit as she watches every minuscule movement and facial expression I make.
“You know Sam has been flying drones over your property. He could see you,” I warn as my heart kicks into a new gear at the thought of him being anywhere nearby.
Harper is resolute when she says, “He and his drone operator are busy elsewhere. I made sure of that. It’s fine.”
The man on the ground falls into silence and though I hold on to a momentary hope that he might have died of a heart attack, he’s still breathing, his face now turned away from us. In the privacy afforded by his absent gaze, I take a step toward Harper. She doesn’t budge, and I take another step, pushing my luck at getting a little closer. “What’s going on? Why are you doing this?”
“Did you miss the part where I told you he’s a waste of skin?” She scours my face with brutal scrutiny, her steely eyes narrowing. “Have you been dipping into Maya’s supply of mushroom-laced blood again?”
“You’re taking a big risk here,” I say, dismissing her joke. “You don’t take big risks.”
She snorts and waves a hand in my direction, nearly grazing my chest. “You want to kill me and you help me dig up dead bodies at night. So, I beg to differ.”
“You takecalculatedrisks. This seems different.”
“It’s not, actually. Because Arthur has an infallible alibi, one that even Sam can’t spin. That asshole on the ground over there is my best chance to finally convince him that Arthur isn’t La Plume.” When my brows furrow with an unvoiced question, a thread of pain weaves through her eyes. “Arthur is in the hospital. I went to make him some dinner and found him on the floor of the kitchen with a nasty gash on his forehead. He’s … not doing so well. That’s why I didn’t come last night.”
Fuck.Fuck. I should have thought to go find her. I should have been there. I know how much he means to her. It’s obvious with how much she’s willing to put herself in danger on his behalf. This is the first time I’ve felt guilt in … I don’t even know how long. “Why didn’t you call me?” I ask.
“Why would I do that?”
“Because I would have come.”
“Why?”
She watches me like this is a legitimate question. As though she really doesn’t know. Do I even know? Maybe I have for a while now, but I’ve just been refusing to acknowledge it. And now it strikes me with the power of a lightning bolt, spidering through my consciousness to burn my delusions away.
I’m falling for Harper Starling.
No. I can’t be.
But I am.
I force a thick swallow down my throat. If Harper sees the startling revelation in my eyes, she doesn’t let it show.
“I would have helped,” is all I can manage.
“It’s fine.” She dismisses my assurance with a shake of her head, though a heaviness rests in her features, a weariness germinated from more than just one night of worry and stress. It inhabits the creases that line the space between her brows and the dark circles beneath her eyes. Her lip is swollen from biting it raw. With a metronomic cadence, she tenses and releases a fist around the handle of the ax.
“Something else is bothering you,” I say. “Is it the fact that you’re killing some random guy with garden implements?”
Her face scrunches as though the mere idea of that suggestion is detestable. “Fuckno.”
“Then what’s going on?” Harper looks away. She can’t hold my eyes. Something is weighing on her with pounds of pressure that she can’t shake off. When she chews at her bottom lip, I can’t resist. I press my thumb to the pulp of flesh and pull it free of her teeth, letting my fingers trace the slope of her cheek. “Talk to me.”
