Page 44 of Tourist Season
There’s no answer.
I look toward the kitchen. The window is open, but no sound comes from outside to signal that she might be around. I don’t smell any coffee either, but from here I can see a to-go cup sitting next to a red kettle, a box of Earl Grey tea, and my car keys resting beside it.
“Harper …” I call again, louder this time in case it reachesoutside to where she might be able to hear me. At first, I’m met with silence. And then the rustle of feathers.
The raven lands on the windowsill, something shiny dangling from his beak. He sets it down next to his foot, the sound of his caw drowning the metallic clink when it tumbles off the narrow ledge to fall into the sink.
“Murder bird,” he says in an imitation of Harper’s voice as he sidesteps toward a glass container on a shelf within his reach. He eyes me and then pecks the lid of the jar. “Nom nom.”
“I haven’t even had caffeine,” I protest.
“Murder.”
“Fine.” I roll off the couch, fixing the robe around my body, memories of last night fleeting through my mind as I knot the terry cloth belt around my waist. My dick aches at the thought of plunging into Harper’s pussy again. Christ. I cannot believe we did that. That was a wildly horrible, impulsive, ridiculous idea. I should be using my time in her cottage to tear it apart and search for my scrapbook and weapons, not fantasize about all the many,manyways I’d love to fuck her again. “Maybe you should murder me,” I say to the bird as I approach the window. He flaps away to land on the patio table in the garden, watching me with interest. “Because I did something monumentally stupid last night, and, at this rate, I fucking deserve it.”
I grab a handful of what I hope is beef jerky from the jar and toss it onto the patio stones to the sound of the raven’s delighted caws. Setting the kettle to boil, I pick up the gift he dropped, a silver bracelet with thick links and an engraved panel in its center.A²BC, it says in a simple script. I’m not sure where he could have found it, or who it might belong to, so I keep it in my hand as I wait for the water to boil then pour my tea, leaving it to brew onthe counter before grabbing my clothes and heading to the bathroom to change.
I’ve just finished getting dressed when I hear the staccato trill of an impact driver in the distance, coming from the direction of the hill where the manor house sits. When I stand in the claw-foot tub and open the frosted window, I can just make out Harper’s form bent over what must be the soapbox racer through a tangle of rhododendron branches. She sets the tool down and then pushes the car back and forth a few times. Seemingly satisfied, she tosses a cover over the vehicle, then stares down at it, unmoving.
I can’t make out her expression at this distance. There’s no way to see if she’s gnawing her bottom lip like she does when she’s anxious, or if her brow is crinkled in anger, or if her stormy eyes suddenly brighten like when she’s trying to suppress a smile. But I can still see a conflict warring within her. She turns, marching a few steps in the direction of the cottage. Then she stops abruptly. She pivots and strides a few steps in the direction of the manor house. Stops again. Spins to face the cottage and stomps once, and I nearly smile at her frustration. She shakes her head and, with a final turn toward the mansion, she strides away, disappearing from view.
My guts twist with the ache of disappointment.
If I’m being honest with myself—which I truly hate having to do these last few days—I was hoping that she would return to the cottage. Every time she faced my direction, longing and anticipation soared in my chest. Every time she turned away, my hope plummeted as though its waxen wings had melted in the sun.
I drag my hands down my face as the distant sound of a door closing rolls down the hill, a stamp of finality on the idea that Harper might actually want to see me. As though the to-go mug wasn’t enough of a “get the fuck out of my house” message.
“You should be looking for the fucking book, dumbass,” I say as I start to turn the handle to close the window. “You should be getting back on track with your fucking plans, not worrying about why she doesn’t want to see you.”
The window is almost sealed shut when I hear a buzzing sound. One that blankets my vision with thoughts of red mist.
I know that fucking sound.
I race from the bathroom, grabbing my keys but leaving my tea untouched as I dart through the back door. A drone soars over the garden in a smooth arc toward the manor. She’s in the main house, thank God. But it could have been watching when she was still outside without her knowledge. And it shouldn’t be anywhere fucking near her.
“Fucking Sam,” I hiss, taking off at a sprint through the back gate, keeping my eye on the drone in the distance as it continues toward the mansion. I head to the left and stay out of its view, running across the lawn to where I can pass through a gap in the thick shrubbery and jump over the stone wall. When I land on the sidewalk, I brush myself down, take a calming breath, and then backtrack toward the cottage gates.
A man I don’t recognize is standing on the opposite side of the quiet street next to what looks like a rental vehicle, his attention consumed by the screen and remote control in his hands. My SUV sits between us, parked close to the entrance of Harper’s house.
I’m watching him, weighing my options as acaw cawsounds from the direction of the cottage. When I look up, the raven is in the branches of the tree that leans over the stone wall, watching me.Great. All I need is for that fucking bird to start screaming “pretty murder bird” at this drone operator who is clearly here for Sam’s search for anything that will tie Arthur Lancaster to LaPlume. And it’s a search that’s endangering Harper the longer it goes on.
I swallow a swell of darkness that chokes up my throat as I cross the road, stuffing my hands in my pockets to keep them from tearing the device free of his grasp and ramming it down his fucking throat.
“Hey, man,” I say, laying my easygoing Southern drawl on a little thicker. He gives me a brief flicker of a smile. With only a single nod in reply, I know he means to dismiss me. “Cool house, huh?”
He chuckles. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Is it going up for sale or something? You taking shots for a real estate agent?”
“Nope.” His lips press tight in a silentfuck off.
Irritation churns through my blood as the drone buzzes in the distance. The mere sound of it stokes the fury coursing through the chambers of my heart. “Okay … cool … Well, if you’re looking for buildings with history, you should try the old Victorian B&B on Ortolan Drive. An old guy at the coffee shop downtown told me some famous serial killer stayed there back thirty-ish years ago. La Flume? La Gloom? La Something …”
“La Plume?” the guy says, his eyes sharp with interest as they finally settle on me for more than two consecutive seconds.
“Yeah, that’s it. La Plume. Buddy said the La Plume guy stayed there before he killed a girl and disappeared. Said he was an odd dude, I dunno. Had some weird story about pancakes or some shit.” I shrug and clutch the bracelet tighter in my pocket, inviting the pain of the metal links as they dig into my palm. “Anyway, good luck with … whatever this is.”
With a single nod, I keep walking. I don’t know shit about theB&B on Ortolan Drive, I just know it’s old and on the other side of town. Far away from Harper.
