Page 80 of Tourist Season
“Yeah, absolutely. Take Arthur home and get him settled, and I’ll be back as soon as I can. I’ll keep you posted.” Harper nods once, but she doesn’t move, not even when I come closer. “Be careful,” I say, staring down at her. She gives me a weak smile. I run my hand over her hair and press a kiss to her forehead before I let her go. “Everything will be fine.”
With another slight nod, she takes a step back, and another, and then finally she turns and walks away.
As soon as she’s gone, I run.
I leave the main cemetery gate ajar just enough that I hope it will remain unnoticed, but will be quick for me to open when I return with my vehicle. And then I race to the inn as fast as my body will let me.
By the time I reach my room, my knee is throbbing and my shirt is sticking to my skin, dampened with sweat. I don’t just grabthe things I think I’ll need to get rid of the unknown man. I grabeverything. I’d already gotten rid of most of the food in the fridge and packed some of my bags in the process of working my way toward this decision. But now I know.
I could run. I could disappear in the fog and never think of Cape Carnage again.
But I will not leave Harper.
Not with Sam closing in. Not with Arthur causing chaos. She can’t do this on her own. Whether she likes it or not, I’m staying at her place. I’ll sleep on the fucking floor if I have to. If tonight has proven anything, it’s that she is not safe. Even Arthur is becoming a threat to her well-being. And I will not let her endure this alone.
I rush with my suitcases through the empty lobby, placing them in my rental car before I head back to my room for my final two bags, the ones that are stocked with our nightly supplies—rope and collapsible shovels, duct tape and bug spray, the camp stove and hot chocolate. With a bag in each hand, I jog back to my vehicle and start loading them into the back, my thoughts consumed by Harper and everything I have to do at the cemetery to get rid of the body and ensure her secrets stay hidden.
“Well, I’ll say,” I hear Sam’s voice from behind me. “That looks like a serial killer kit if I ever saw one.”
I turn slowly, coming face-to-face with the muzzle of a gun.
“Evening, Sam. That’s an aggressive way to say hello.” I slowly start to raise my hands. When they’re at chest height, I strike out with my right hand, hoping to snatch the gun from his hand.
But Sam is faster than I expected.
With a kick I don’t even see coming, he nails my left knee with a vicious strike. I go down hard on the asphalt.
“Oops. That wouldn’t be your bad leg, would it?”
Deep breaths shudder through my lungs. I struggle to focus on the asphalt beneath my palms. It’s not just the agonizing burn in my knee. It’s not the wound that’s never fully healed that darkens the edges of my vision. It’s the rage. Sam knows my weaknesses and he’s willing to strike them.
A terrible question blares through my thoughts like an alarm:How many weaknesses is he ready to exploit?
Though it takes me a moment, I force myself through the searing pain. With a hand braced to the bumper, I rise and face Sam once more.
“I started looking into you,” Sam says. His gun is steady. His eyes determined. A little smile of triumph lifts one corner of his lips. “The more I started digging, the more interesting things I started to find.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His smile grows darker. More boastful. He shifts his weight, the camera bag on his hip following the motion. “I’m sure you don’t. But you’re going to get into your car and drive exactly where I tell you to go. And then we’ll have a talk and see if I can jog your memory.”
I take a step closer, and he takes one back, firming his grip on his weapon. “And if I don’t?” I ask.
“Well, I guess I shoot you. It would probably be pretty believable that I acted in self-defense, all things considered. Especially since Sheriff Yates isn’t known for his investigative skills, you know? So whether you live or die is up to you. But either way, if you don’t come with me, I’ll hand everything I have straight to the FBI. I’ll expose everything I know about you,” he says as his thumb shifts to release the safety from the gun. “AndHarper Starling.”
TEMPESTHarper
How’s it going?
IOPEN MY LAST TEXTto Nolan, my thumb hovering over the screen. I start typing a new message.Are you okay?But just as I’m about to press send, I notice what’s missing. The little gray Delivered notification below my last question.
A thread of unease knits through my veins.
I send my other message, though I already know the result won’t be different. The second message isn’t delivered either. I call Nolan’s phone. It goes straight to voicemail.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
I drag a hand through my hair and stare down at Arthur, his mouth agape, his breathing deep and even. Part of me wants to stay in case he becomes restless in the night. But something gnaws at me. Though I try to tell myself that Nolan might have his phone off to minimize disruptions or to avoid detection, my instincts are telling me otherwise. Something feels wrong.
