Page 47 of Tourist Season
With a sharp inhale, I rise from the bed and stride to the shower. Within fifteen minutes, I’m leaving my room, headed for the general store to replace everything that she tossed into the Ballantyne River. Maybe I even pick up a few more things. When I get back to my room, I text her.
I’ll swing by at nine to pick you up?
I stare at the screen for a long time. But her response never comes, even after the last shades of indigo have bled from the sky. Despite the lack of reply, I still drive past her cottage on my way to the river, slowing as I near the gate in the stone wall. There are no lights on in her house.
I park on the lane near the river where my vehicle will be hidden from view. With my new stove and lantern and tarp shoved into my damp backpack and an unused shovel over my shoulder, I head to the boulders that overlook Arthur’s burial ground. I set out two mugs. I make hot chocolate. But Harper doesn’t show.
It’s nearly eleven-thirty by the time I finally take the leftovers in the pot down to the river to wash the cooled chocolate away. When I’m done, I turn toward the silt floodplain, my focus panning over the expanse of secrets. Without Harper, I don’t know the measurements. I wouldn’t know where to start to look for the next of Arthur’s victims.
But that’s not why I’m here.
I head back to the boulder and pack my belongings, then walk along the shore, wading into the water until the bank narrows and disappears and granite creeps into the water. Within a few moments, I arrive at a smaller silt plain. One that’s familiar. I don’t need a map. I know where to dig.
I plunge my shovel into the soil.
In the dim light cast by a crescent moon, I open the grave I dug for Harper Starling.
RUNNING DARKHarper
I’ll swing by at 9 to pick you up?
NINE O’CLOCK WAS OVER THREEhours ago. I never replied, though one could argue that I had several good reasons.
Reason one: I hate him. Seriously. And I refuse to be dickmatized by that asshole.
Reason two: No matter how hard I keep trying to find evidence to the contrary, Nolan Rhodes hates me too. He told me so. Multiple times.He hates me he hates me he hates me.
Reason three: I do not need him right now. Absolutely not.
And most importantly, reason four: Arthur. I was lucky I found him on the kitchen floor when I did. Though I try not to think about how he could have died after a fall like that, the thought still haunts me, refusing to let go.
I look over to where he’s sleeping soundly despite the beep of his heart rate monitor and the harsh scent of disinfectant and the voices of nurses and patients on the other side of the curtains that separate us from the rest of the emergency ward. A white gauzebandage is taped to his forehead. Dried blood dots the collar of his hospital gown.
I frown, the inside of my bottom lip raw between my teeth. Sometimes I don’t go to the main house after dinner to check on Arthur a final time before bed. I might have so easily rationalized that he didn’t need me. Or assumed he was already in his room and left without checking the kitchen. He could have spent all night on the cold and unforgiving stone. He could have been there alone. He could have—
I shake my head, forcing myself to banish my worst fears.
I don’t need Nolan. I’m not lonely. I’m not afraid. I can do this on my own.
I don’t miss him.
I groan and press my head against the wall behind me in the hope it might absorb me into another, less complicated dimension. Having a mortal enemy is a lot harder than I anticipated. Because I shouldn’t want him here. I shouldn’t miss him.At all. Except I think that I do.
I shift on the vinyl seat, the ache between my legs a persistent reminder of my night with Nolan. I should not be thinking about that right now. But every time I close my eyes, I hear his whisper in my ear. I feel his calloused palms on my skin. I catch his scent in the air, bergamot and spice. And it’s not just the sex. It’s the connection that came with it. It felt like I had been cracked open just enough that I could let a little of myself out into the light. After hiding for so long, I felt seen. For a moment.
But he hates me. I think.
A text buzzes in my hand, and in one heartbeat, Nolan’s name flashes through my mind. But it’s not him. It’s Lukas, and I try to push away the shard of disappointment that lodges in my chest.
How’s grumps?
Grumps? I bet Arthur loves being called that.
AUTOCORRECT! Gramps. But grumps is also pretty accurate.
Grumps is sleeping. I’m just waiting for the doctor to come by. Hopefully we’ll be out of here soon.
Okay. I changed to the earliest flight tomorrow, so I should be home by noon. I’m sorry for the shitty timing for being away.
