Page 91 of Tourist Season
… or did she?
I’m not who you think I am, she’d said, defiance vibrantly gleaming in her silver eyes. And I didn’t listen, not really. I didn’t hear what she was trying to say.
She has survived loss. Captivity. Horror and death. And she was ready to survive me.
Me.
I’ve fallen in love with a phantom. A woman I hardly know. One who never told me the truth. She’ll let me pierce her skin and pledge my loyalty with the pain she craves, but she won’t tell me her fucking name.
What happened to the actual Harper Starling? And how the hell did Autumn take her identity and wind uphere?
I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel in this squall that crashes through the cavity of my chest. The guilt and shame for how I treated her and what I nearly did. Betrayal and anger that she never told me who she really was, even after I promised I was never going to give her up. Worry and hope. Longing and sorrow and regret. With a heavy sigh, I curl my fist around the bracelet and hang my head, trying to figure my way out of this storm. But I don’t see a clear path through it.
A notification dings from my computer. Then another. And another. My brow furrows, and I push myself off the bed, returning to the table. When I click on the tab for the Discord server, KnightofTruth has sent a message to the chat.
Sleuthseekers, it’s time to fucking mobilize.
A chill dances through my flesh. Goose bumps rise on my arms.A slew of messages comes through from other users in the server. Questions. Excitement. Guesses and theories.
I type out a question of my own:Mobilize for what?
KnightofTruth sends a reply to my query that sets off another storm of questions.
War.
Anxiety bleeds through the chat. The same question echoes in different iterations.Why?
Maybe some instinct within me expects KnightofTruth’s reply, at least in part. But it still hits me like the car that started this tempest four years ago. An unstoppable impact that slams right into my chest. It crushes muscle and bone, sucking the air from my lungs.
Sam and Vinny are both dead,KnightofTruth says.It’s time to blow this case wide open.
We’re going to Cape Carnage.
EPILOGUE
IPULL MY GUN FROMthe holster at my side, holding the flashlight over the barrel as I shoulder the iron door open, keeping it ajar with my foot as I enter the old distillery. There’s a rustle in the dark. I shine my light on the plastic taped to the wall, flapping in the breeze. Sheets of drywall are stacked in the center of the reception room that surrounds me, waiting to be hung. The smell of paint and malt and freshly cut lumber lingers in the air. I pan my light around the space, but there’s no evidence that anyone is here.
I let the door close behind me with a dull thud.
I’ve been to the Lancaster Distillery only once, years ago, before I even lived in Cape Carnage. But I still remember the layout with perfect clarity. I head first to the tasting room and retail space to my right, beyond the reception area. There are polished countertops, new lighting and fixtures, but everything has been selected with care to maintain the feel of history in a building that has been here almost as long as the town itself. Lukas Lancaster does nothing by half measures, after all. Mediocrity is not a Lancaster trait. It’s something I’ve come to admire about them.
Lord knows, I’ve been watching them long enough.
When I determine there’s no one to find, I backtrack into the reception room, heading down the corridor that leads toward the stills.
The building is silent as I enter the room where exposed beams frame the vaulted ceiling shaped to mimic the hull of a ship. I stop on the landing that overlooks the main production area. Copper stills reflect the moonlight that stalks through the leaded windows. My light pans across the concrete, swept clean, no prints to guide me. But I don’t need them. Not when I step to the railing and my light crosses a body lying motionless on the floor below.
“Mr. Porter,” I say to myself, tipping my hat up my forehead as I stare down at him. Blood pools around his head like a halo. One of his arms rests at an impossible angle. I shake my head andtsk. “You found yourself in some kind of unfortunate predicament.”
I’m about to head down the stairs to investigate further when I hear a sound from the entrance of the distillery. I raise my gun and point it in the direction of a flashlight that approaches. “Sam …?” a man’s voice calls. “I’m sorry I’m so late, man. I—”
“Stop right there. Hands in the air.” Vinny Meschino. Sam’s drone operator and helper. He raises his hands. “Come forward slowly. Let me get a good look at you.” He does as I ask, stopping when I gesture with my free hand for him to stop just before the end of the hallway. One side of his face is scraped with fresh cuts. Dried blood rims his nostrils. The guy has had a rough night, by the looks of things. “Want to tell me what you’re doing here, son?” I ask.
He swallows. Shifts his feet. His eyes dart around the corridor as though he might be able to pluck a suitable lie off the walls.That’s a guilty man if I’ve ever seen one. And I’ve seen a fair few in my time.
“I got all night, kid. Go on.”
“I was coming to find Sam,” he finally admits. “We were going to do some filming here.”
