Page 45 of Tourist Season
It takes every shred of restraint to keep my head down and not turn back to split the guy’s throat open with my bare hands. When I get to the end of the block, I allow myself a glance over my shoulder. A dark smile kicks up one corner of my lips as I see the drone returning from over Harper’s house. I know he’s taken the bait.
As soon as I’m out of view, I dart behind the wide trunk of an elm tree, hiding there until I hear his engine start and his car drive past. When I’m sure I won’t be seen, I return to my vehicle and start it up, my hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly my fingers ache. The more Sam closes in around Arthur, the more Harper could be threatened by the fallout. If she’s been covering for his crimes, which seems to be the case given the exhumations she’s wrangled me into, it’s only a matter of time until she’s caught in the web too.
Whether I want to kill her one moment or kiss her the next, I cannot let that happen.
With a furious growl, I hit the steering wheel with my fist. It’s not nearly as satisfying as crushing Sam’s cheekbones would be, but it will have to do. I inhale a steadying breath that fills to the bottom of my lungs, then pull away from the curb, heading for the outskirts of town.
Ten minutes later, I’m parking at the one place I never thought I’d voluntarily show my face. Particularly not on Harper Starling’s behalf.
I give myself a final check in the mirror. Eyes a little bloodshot, haunted by dark circles. Hair a bit disheveled. I need caffeine and a shower, but this will have to suffice. This is a batshit, recklessidea. Not the kind of thing I would normally do. But I need to put some heat on Sam. Something official. Something that will eat up his time and make him think twice about infringing on Harper’s privacy.
I practice my best guiltless, “I’m a good citizen and absolutely not a murderer” smile, and then leave my car to stride toward the entrance of the Cape Carnage Sheriff’s Office.
A man in his early forties looks up from the reception desk as I enter, pushing a pair of black-rimmed glasses up his nose. “Can I help you?”
“Maybe,” I say, giving him a smile that I hope has the right mix of concern and helpfulness. “I saw something that’s maybe a little suspicious, and I thought I should probably let you know.”
“Okay.” The guy taps his mouse and brings up something on his computer, flicking a bland, disinterested look my way. “What’s your name—”
“I’m not busy, Tom,” a man interjects. He saunters out of an office behind the desk, a set of beige plastic blinds obscuring the interior behind him. He’s tall, even more imposing in his full uniform, likely in his late fifties, though it’s hard to pin down a specific age. His hair and close-cut stubble are silver, only a few dark hairs clinging to their youthful shade, but he’s putting in effort to stay in shape, the muscles in his arms and legs obvious despite the formal attire. He smiles at me, his eyes a colorless kind of blue that takes on the traits of its surroundings. “Come on back, son. I’ve got time.”
I return his smile and pass the reception desk, entering the office of Sheriff Yates.
Sheriff Yates stands at the door, his hand stretched toward the vinyl-covered chairs in a gesture for me to take a seat. I give himmy thanks and do so without delay, doing my best to stay in my concerned-citizen-non-murderer character as I lace my fingers and wait with rigid posture. He shuts the door and sits on the other side of the desk with a long, contented sigh. The office is decorated with photos of what must be his wife and two daughters, fishing and hunting photos interspersed among the happy family pictures. Yates with a fish. Yates with a dead deer. Yates with a perfect small-town life.
Light streams through the blinds behind him and it sets off the start of a pulsing headache that I do my best to ignore.
“I’m glad you came in,” Yates says, his smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. Despite the wrinkles that say he’s spent his life giving easygoing, welcoming smiles, unease still creeps across my spine. “It’s a welcome delay to reviewing the Carnival of Carnage plans. I think I’ve gone over them with the town council no less than sixty times already.”
“Glad I could be of service,” I reply with a deferential nod. “I’m sure it’ll be worth it. I hear it’s quite the event.”
“It is. A little chaotic, but so is Cape Carnage during tourist season.” Yates folds his hands on his desk and leans back, his smile dimming to something more serious as he scrutinizes me. “So, what can I do for you, Mister …?”
“Rhodes,” I say.
“Mr. Rhodes. Did I hear you tell Tom that you saw something suspicious? Why don’t you tell me about it.”
I clear my throat, expecting Yates to take up a pen and paper or fire up his computer, but he doesn’t. He just raises his eyebrows, giving me a faint but encouraging nod.
“Well, it might be nothing, but there’s this man who’s staying in the same hotel as me, the Capeside Inn. He’s here filming adocumentary, something about some kind of amateur investigation group he’s part of. The Sleuthseekers.”
“Ah, yes,” Yates says, a bemused smirk lifting one corner of his lips. “I know the type. They show up here from time to time.”
“Yeah, well, he seems a bit … obsessive. And I’m not sure he’s playing by the rules.” I jerk my head in the general direction of the town, arranging my features into a look of earnest concern, a departure from the simmering rage that still boils in the depths of my chest when the image of the drone operator resurfaces in my thoughts. “Last night, I saw him snooping around some place by the Ballantyne River that has No Trespassing signs.”
“The Ballantyne River?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“You’ve got a fishing permit?”
“Umm …” My brain seems to flip over, trying to process his question with insufficient caffeination. “I wasn’t fishing, sir …?”
Yates’s head tilts like a curious dog. “That’s the usual reason people find themselves out at the river. You’re not hunting off-season, are you?”
“No, sir.”Unless we count human game, an unhelpful voice in my head declares.“Absolutely not.”
“You’re sure? I’ll let you off with a warning, but you need to be honest with me. Deputy Collins is a vegan and he takes poaching very seriously. If he gets wind of it—”
