Page 21 of Tourist Season
And above that:
Master code for room safes.
I close my eyes. Take a deep breath in. Let it out slowly as I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Irene,” I say as I open my eyes and level her with a flat glare, “do you really think you should be giving me this?” I slide the paper back to her, but she merely waves my concern away and places the note back into the drawer.
“I’ve been running this inn for forty years. Seen all types come and go.” She pins me with an unwavering stare over the acetate rims of her glasses. “Alltypes. Good and bad and indifferent. I can tell, Mr. Rhodes. You’re a good man.”
All the admonishments I’d like to make, or the snarky retorts, or even the frustrated sigh that was building in the back of my throat seem to vanish. She smiles at me as though she really believes the words she just said. As though, somehow, she knows I don’t agree.
I should tell her I’m not a good man. And I don’t know if I’ve ever been one. Maybe the monster in me was always lurking in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to come into the light. And when Billy died, there was no reason to keep it caged anymore. With the first bite of revenge, all it wanted was more.
Sometimes, I do wish I could tell someone about the kind of man I really am. I might not feel guilt about the things I’ve done, but my sins still grow around me like the impenetrable wall of a remote forest. I can’t really be seen when I lurk in those shadows. I don’t show anyone my true self. Not unless I have a blade in my hand and I’m carving my darkness right into them.
I clear my throat, ridding it of protests and confessions, giving Irene a weak smile. “Thanks for the code,” I say, nodding toward the paper before I turn away and head back to my room.
By the time I’m inside, the reality has truly sunk in. There’s no way my book is going to be sitting in that safe, particularly not when all my weapons are gone. I head to where it sits on the shelf, mocking me, and punch in the master code.Zero,nine,two,three.
The mechanism unlocks and the door swings open.
Just as I suspected, my book is nowhere to be seen. But, to my surprise, there’s something left in its place. I pull out a folded note,turning away from the shelves as I unfurl the torn paper to read the curling, precise script of an unfamiliar hand.
Hello, Ballmeat. I have your little art project. Maybe you should just fuck off out of town while you still can.
Sincerely,
Your bitter enemy
PS How’s this for communication, asshole?
I catch my reflection when I turn my attention away from the paper in my hands. It’s not just fury I see. It’s the thrill of a chase. The challenge of someone who isn’t just prey, but another predator, perhaps one who is not all that different from me. I saved Harper Starling for last because I knew she would be the best prize. I just didn’t realize how right I would be. How worthy she would be of destruction.
“I cannot wait to kill Harper Starling,” I say to the man in the mirror, every word a deliberate, decisive vow.
I fold the paper along the creases she left and place it on my nightstand, then grab my car keys and leave.
Or, Itryto.
There’s only my vehicle and an Escalade in the parking lot when I get there, and I don’t even make it halfway to the road before I realize there’s a critical problem with my SUV. I throw it into park across two empty spaces and slam the door shut behind me before walking around to the passenger side.
My knife is lodged to the hilt in the flat tire.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I snarl as I pull the blade free, the last of the air hissing through the slit left behind. My knee protests in thebrace as I scan the space around me. There’s no other option. I can’t really call an Uber to take me to the home of someone I might possibly murder with my bare fucking hands.
With a heavy sigh, I hide the blade beneath the cuff of my sleeve, and then I start a painful jog toward Lancaster Manor. I stay off the main roads. Stick to the quiet side streets with their mix of Victorian houses and wartime bungalows and the occasional new build that’s always too modern for its surroundings yet somehow seems to work as a contrast to its more colorful neighbors.
The fog is so thick that I can only see a few feet in any direction. There’s no one on the roads, but I hear things in the gloom. A door slamming shut. Children’s hushed whispers, one of them starting a countdown as they take up a game of hide-and-seek. My haunted surroundings do little to dilute my obsession, Harper taking up all the space in my thoughts, so much so that I make a wrong turn and end up on a dead-end road. My knee throbs. My neck aches. My back hums with the threat of pain, a drum that echoes every footfall it took to get here. But I don’t stop. I just grip the knife tighter, imagining the moment I can hold it to Harper’s throat, when I can feel her heartbeat through the polished steel. I push myself to keep going, not letting myself slow to a walk until I get to the secluded side street where Lancaster Manor looms on the hill, staring down at the town shrouded in fog.
But when I finally arrive at my destination, I find that I’m not alone.
Sam Porter stands across the street from the main entrance of Lancaster Manor, his camera mounted on a tripod, panning across the estate as he makes notes into a voice recorder. It’s not until Iget a little closer that I catch the occasional word.Serial killer … Murder at the cottage … Never the same …
“Maybe La Plume was here all along. And maybe he never left,” he says, giving me a dark smile as I draw to a halt a few steps away. He turns off the camera and pockets the voice recorder, pushing the hood of his raincoat off his Porter Productions ball cap. “Hey, man. Great day for some atmospheric shots, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, sure is. Not such a great day for a jog, though. Think I’ll head back to the inn soon,” I say, the lie rolling off my tongue with ease as I cast my gaze up the hill to the foreboding home, a sentry lurking in the oppressive mist. “How’s your film coming together?”
“Good, thanks.” When I nod and make no move to ask prying questions, he says, “I’ll start interviewing some of the townsfolk this week, actually.”
