Page 37 of Tourist Season
I grip my shovel tighter where it rests across my shoulder as I walk on the unlit path that leads to the Ballantyne River and the floodplain. Though the footing is uneven, marred by rocks and roots, I’m not paying much attention to the trail or the hazards in the dark. I’m still caught on the past, even though I hate thinking back on that time. Not just the derelict house I’d been dragged to, or the oppressive cold of the cellar, or the smell of piss and shit, fear and death.
It’s not just the memory of the heavy footsteps above us, or theway desperation and despair chewed through my soul when Adam was torn from me. It’s not just the sound of the chainsaw or Adam’s screams or the maniacal laughter of the man as he murdered my boyfriend a floor above me. It’s not the memory of pressing the heels of my hands so hard to my ears that I hoped I would crush that sound out of my skull. I hated those first days after I’d escaped from that hell house too, when I was sucked into the whirlwind of police and lawyers and reporters. When I was forced to face my vulnerabilities.
The truth is, I didn’t feel like a survivor. I felt like a failure.
I wanted to be like the woman who’d been thrown into that cellar with me the day Adam died. While I was stammering a helpless chant about Adam’s death, she was cool and calm, even though her face was streaked with blood and her shoulder was badly dislocated. “Yes. He killed Adam,” she’d said. “And I promise you, Adam will be the last person Harvey Mead ever kills.”
Then she gave me her fucking shirt.
Sloane Sutherland. She wasn’t just a survivor, she was awarrior. Courageous. Determined. Indomitable.
You’d think I’d look back on my first moments of freedom after escaping that cellar with a sense of relief, or maybe even pride. But I don’t. Because as I hid in the rain to watch Sloane and her now-husband exact their revenge on that fucking monster Harvey Mead, I understood how weak I really was. Sloane wasn’t just tough, she was a killer too, one even more dangerous than Mead, something I didn’t fully grasp until I tracked her down and uncovered her deepest secrets. The infamous Orb Weaver, a killer of killers, a woman who hunted serial murderers and made them into art. But even in those earliest moments, just watching her and Rowan bring down the man who had abducted and nearlymurdered me, I realized I had so far to go to become a woman as unconquerable as she was.
Maybe I never will.
I’m sure I’ll never be exactly like her. She probably never sleeps with a light on. I bet she’s not afraid of being alone in the rain and the dark. I bet she would have killed Nolan ten times over already. She would have said, “Fuck youand your skinbook and your murder dimples and your stupidly beautiful eyes. I won’t be swayed by a hot psychopath.” Then she would have plucked out his eyeballs, slit his throat, and exhumed all the bodies by herself. She’d know what to do with Sam and how to protect Arthur without getting caught. She wouldn’t need anyone’s help.
A heavy sigh passes through my pursed lips, the air cold enough for my breath to leave a plume of fog among the raindrops. I’ll definitely never be exactly like her. Because I almost regret telling Nolan to leave me alone back at Maya’s shop. I’d rather have him around during these exhumations, even if he’s just another asshole who wants to kill me. That’s so fucked up.
And what’s even worse is that I’m not just angry with him about the drone or his lapse in fending off Sam, or his cutting words about Arthur, or even all his erroneous beliefs about the things I’ve done. What truly burns is the hurt beneath all that. I think I’d started to convince myself he gave a shit about me when he gifted me that bear spray, or when he met my eyes as he took off his clothes to swim across the river, watching me in a way that was meant to leave heat behind. I swore I felt a thread pull tight between us, energy crackling across the fragile filament. But the reality is, that’s only a ruse. He’s just helping me so he can get his book back. And I guess he doesn’t care too much about that either, seeing as how he didn’t text or call or pick me up for our nightly excursion.
I just wish I could remember that every kindness he offers, no matter how small, has only one purpose: to get him closer to his objective. Kill Harper Starling.
I gnaw at my lip and hike the strap of my backpack higher up my shoulder, then turn off my headlamp as I near the quiet road, the rain reflecting off its surface in the ambient light. Nolan’s car isn’t here. He usually parks on a narrow section of gravel that dips into the property so it’s not as obvious and out of place, though there’s hardly ever traffic on this road anyway. A conflicted swirl of emotions tugs at my guts. I’m relieved. I’m dismayed. And, thankfully, I’m enormously pissed off. Anger is the only useful emotion of the bunch, so as I march across the road, I focus my attention where it belongs. On fucking up Nolan Rhodes.
How dare he squirm his way out of our deal? How dare he assume the worst of me, even though I’m also a serial killer and clearly protecting another serial killer? How fucking dare he give me bear spray and then leave me to walk alone in the night when there could be bears to use it on?
How dare he … make hot chocolate …?
I draw to an abrupt halt at the edge of the floodplain. Nolan is at the left by the boulders where we always ditch our tools, sitting on a folding stool beneath a tarp suspended on the branches that stretch above him. He’s bent over a small camp stove, stirring steaming liquid in a pot. Two mugs and a can of whipped cream are resting in the glow of the lantern next to his feet.
“I was starting to think you weren’t going to show,” he says as I come closer to stare down at the scene before me. He doesn’t let his attention linger long enough for me to read anything from his expression. I let the silence stretch between us, determined to hold on to the rage that still simmers beneath my skin. I just standthere, the rain pelting the hood of my coat, my hands shoved into my pockets. Nolan darts a wary look my way and I raise my brows in an unspoken question. “Figured I’d make some hot chocolate to keep us warm. If we’re going to work in the rain, might as well make it worth our while.”
I could find other ways to do that, I think as the image of Nolan stripping to his swimsuit in the rain appears in my mind. I shake my head to clear the unwanted thoughts, the motion deepening the crease between his brows.
“No hot chocolate?” he asks, and though he tries to look nonplussed, I think I still catch a wisp of disappointment in his face.
I want hot chocolate. But I also don’t want to take a single thing he has to offer, that fucker. I know his game: He’s just trying to get back in my good graces so I don’t mail that scrapbook off somewhere. So I shake my head. “I’m fine, thanks,” I reply as I set my bag down, unzipping it to grab the lantern from its depths. As I do, my fingertips graze a bottle in the bottom of my bag. I pull it out to check the label. Berry Blissful Bloodbath. Maya’s strawberry-flavored fake blood.
It’ll change your life, she’d said to Nolan in my backyard the other day as he stood there with severed hands clutched in his grip.
I’ve tried her edible blood before. And it will, indeed, change your fucking life.
“You know what,” I say as I set the lantern down and pop the cap of the bottle, giving it a sniff. The sweet scent of strawberries floods my nostrils. I can’t detect the earthy, musky smell of the other ingredients. But I know they’re there, and I keep them and the red warning label on the front of the bottle hidden beneath my fingers. “Maybe I will have some. We can put some of Maya’s Bloodbath on the whipped cream. I haven’t had it in ages. She was right when she said it’ll change your life.”
Nolan’s eyes sweep over me, leaving a tingling current behind. I don’t react. I try not to look too interested in the prospect of hot chocolate, as though I really don’t care either way if I have some. But suddenly I do.Very much.
“Okay,” he says. I detect a measure of relief in his voice as he turns the stove off and grabs the mugs, pouring the steaming liquid into them. “This is the packaged chili hot chocolate from the Bean. I hope that’s okay.”
I try not to let my smile stretch too far. “Perfect.”
Nolan shakes the can of whipped cream and dispenses a healthy dollop of white foam onto the top of each mug before passing one to me. I deposit a couple of drops of the strawberry blood onto my whipped cream before reaching over and drenching his with a generous drizzle of the viscous red liquid. “I’m not a huge fan of the strawberry flavor,” I say with a saccharine smile as I continue squeezing the bottle until he finally pulls his mug away. “I prefer raspberry, but most people enjoy the strawberry more.”
“Thanks,” Nolan says as he looks down at the crisscrossed red streaks on his whipped cream. When he looks my way, I take a sip of my drink.
“Thankyou, for this.” I raise my mug as though giving him a toast. “It’s thoughtful of you.”
Nolan nods. When he takes a sip of his drink and downs a mouthful of the whipped cream, I struggle to smother a wicked smirk. “The rain is supposed to let up in about half an hour or so,” he says, casting a thoughtful frown across the floodplain. “Maybe we should hang back a bit. No point in making it worse than it has to be.”
