Page 20 of Tourist Season
I turn away from the coffee shop and stride through the mist, refocusing on my hunt, letting my vengeance reemerge to cut through the murk that seems to bleed into my mind whenever I think about the woman I’ve come here to kill.
By the time I make it back to the inn, I feel realigned with my mission. I know who she is and what she’s done, but she clearly still has no fucking idea who I am. It’s somewhat infuriating, honestly. But at least I have the upper hand.
I’ve got Jake’s body buried away in a secret spot along the river, ready to be exhumed whenever I feel like tormenting her. Nothing says psychological pressure quite like a random foot showing up in your mailbox or a femur in the cupboard when you go to grab a mug for your agonizingly long coffee-brewing process. I cling to these little fantasies. They give me the clarity I need amidst the confusion of the last two days. My steps might be painful, but they’re lighter. I’m even smiling as I enter the inn and make my way down the hall. I’ve got the upper hand, after all.
Until I don’t.
When I enter my room, I take only one step before going rigid. I stand unmoving as the door closes behind me with a quietsnick.The hairs on my arms rise. The details around me sharpen. There’s nothing different about the room from when I left it, but whether it’s a scent or an energy or an echo of intention, I know it.
She was here.
I stalk to the armoire first and throw the doors open, sliding the hangers across the metal rod to reveal the back of the wardrobe.
My backpack is gone.
I take a useless spin, desperate to believe that I just misplaced it. That it hasn’t disappeared. But it has.
My heart climbs into my throat to choke every breath with furious beats.
“Fuck.Fuck.”
I race to the shelves across from the bathroom sink, where thesafe sits in a cubbyhole. My fingers tremble as I press each number.Zero. Seven. Zero. Five. I pull the handle.
It doesn’t budge.
Sweat rolls between my shoulder blades. My skin is burning. My vision narrows at the edges. I try again, counting out loud as though it might change the outcome.
“Zero. Seven. Zero. Five.”
I rattle the handle this time. But it still doesn’t budge.
Rage and panic flood every cell in my body. I twist away from the shelf to smash a fist down on the counter. The pain doesn’t soothe the feral fury that threatens to emerge in a scream. I stare at my reflection. Eyes wide. Brows drawn, creases notched between them. Hair damp with sweat and rain. I lean closer, until my unsteady exhalations fog the mirror, my hands shaking as I grip the edge of the sink. Who the fuck knows what Harper has done with my belongings. She could be at the police station right now, laying my weapons out one by one on a table, relishing her macabre game of show-and-tell. She could be showing them my book …
My fist crashes onto the counter a second time, pain radiating through my bones.
“I’m going to fuckingkill her.”
The promise lingers in my breath on the glass.
I march down the hall, glaring at every corner I pass that doesn’t have a camera. Which isall of them. It’s one of the reasons I picked this fucking hotel in the first place. The total lack of security is kind of a big plus when your sole purpose for being in town is to commit fuckingmurder.
At least it is until someone steals your precious trophy book from thefucking safewhen you’ve been gone for not even an hour.
A growl escapes my control as I round the corner and the reception desk comes into view.
As usual, the cadence of Irene’s snore flows from the darkness of her office. I roll my eyes and huff out a sigh as I hit the bell with more force than necessary.
There’s a startled snort in the dark. “I’m coming, I’m coming, keep your panties on.”
I ring the bell again.
“I said I’m coming, Jesus H. Christ in a chicken basket.” Irene shuffles into view, straightening her glasses with crooked fingers. “Mr. Rhodes—”
“Irene,” I say, swallowing my irritation, though only barely, “I seem to have locked myself out of my safe and I need to access it for important documents.”
“Oh, oh. Just a minute.” She waggles a finger in the air and starts pulling open drawers on the other side of the counter, shuffling through their contents. I figure she must be searching for a key, which gives me at least a tiny shred of hope that maybe my book is still safely stored inside if a nondescript master key is buried among her belongings. But that little wisp of hope evaporates completely when she withdraws a Post-it note and slides it across the counter. “There you go.”
Zero, nine, two, three, the note reads.
