Page 78 of Tourist Season
Though I’m irritated at myself and worried for Harper, I’m kind of impressed. “I’m sorry, Harper. Truly. I won’t make that mistake again.”
The only acknowledgment she gives me is a worried flick of her eyes as she chews on her bottom lip. She frowns at the screen, and a heartbeat later her expression clears, leaving only determination behind. “He’s at the cemetery. Take these.” Harper thrusts her keys in my direction. “The Jag is parked in the garage. Bring it down the main driveway and stop at the gate. I just have to grab something from my place and I’ll meet you there.”
With a nod, she turns and runs toward the cottage, and I watch her for just a beat before I pivot in the opposite direction and run for the house. The old sedan rumbles to life and I bring it down the drive, stopping where Harper instructed. A moment later, she appears, running from the back of the cottage with a backpack slung over her shoulders. She shrugs it off as she gets close to the car, but it’s not until she’s inside that I recognize it for what it is.
Mybackpack.
“I guess we’re all about the murder bags today,” she says quietly, passing it over the center console to me. I’m so stunned that it takes me a moment to accept it. “Your book is inside too. Everything is there.” She lifts one shoulder. “But I won’t be offended if you want to check.”
I set it on my lap, my eyes not leaving hers. I should be celebrating. I should feel relieved. Maybe I should even feel ready for the revenge I came for. But I don’t. It’s as though everything has washed away, leaving only the core of my obsession behind. Harper was always at its center. But what she means to me has transformed, and now all I feel is fear for what this could mean. “Why?”
She tries to shrug again, but it comes off jerky and nervous. “Just in case.”
“Just in case of what?” That anxiety is swirling now, a squall behind my sternum. “Just in case of Sam? Or something else?”
“I don’t know. I just …” She shakes her head, turning her attention to her hands as they fidget in her lap. “I just don’t want you to be pulled into it if things come down on Arthur and me.” She tries to smile, but it seems brittle around the edges. “I’ve done enough damage already, don’t you think?”
I don’t answer that. I can’t. I don’t know how the accident happened or why she chose to leave Billy and me on the road. Maybe she has reasons I don’t understand. And I can’t quantify how much damage she’s done, nor how much I’ve grown because of her, even when I didn’t want to. How can I possibly measure loss against love? The grief I’ve endured against the life I’ve gained? I can’t change the past. But hasn’t she given me purpose in its aftermath?
I set the bag in the footwell behind her, and then I grasp herchin, staring into her shining eyes so she knows I mean it when I say, “Thank you, Harper.”
With a swift and gentle kiss to her lips, I focus on the fog ahead, putting the car in drive.
The roads are empty given the hour and poor weather. The air feels thick with tension between us, Harper relaying directions before slipping back into contemplative silence. When we arrive at the cemetery, the iron gate that bars entry to the twisting road at night is ajar, enough for someone to walk through, a heavy padlock hanging open on the chain.
“Any idea what he’s doing at the graveyard?”
Harper expels a long breath. “Hopefully having a peaceful moment of reflection and solitude.” I glance in her direction and she gives me a flat look in reply. “Considering he has the murder bag, I seriously doubt it’s anything good. I’ll get the gate.”
She steps out of the car and pushes it wide enough for me to drive through, and I wait on the other side as she shuts it. As she slides back into her seat, I hear the yapping bark of a small dog in the distance ahead.
“Looks like he’s probably at the Lancaster family plot,” Harper says, zooming in on the map on her screen to pinpoint the location of Arthur’s phone. She pockets the device and points to the dark road that twists up a hill of graves. “Up there.”
I roll forward, a slow and careful procession through the mist. When we’re nearly at the top of the hill, a small dog with bows at its ears bounds across our path, a leash trailing behind it.
“That’s probably not good,” I say, lurching to a stop.
“No. Probably not.”
I throw the car into park and turn it off, leaving the keys in the ignition. We get out and quietly push the doors closed, though itwould be hard to hear us over the insistent bark of the tiny canine bounding around my legs. I pick it up and it settles, and we exchange a grim look before Harper turns toward a section of the cemetery bordered by a low fence with an open gate that leads to the headstones just visible through the thick fog. At first, it seems still. Empty. And then there’s a moan.
We rush toward the gate.
Two men lie supine among the graves. But only one of them moves.
Harper drops to her knees at Arthur’s side, checking his cheek where the skin is split and bleeding. “Arthur, oh my God, are you all right?” He groans and tries to sit up, but doesn’t answer. I set the dog down and check the other man’s pulse, but I can already tell by his open, unseeing eyes and his cool skin that there’s no hope of resuscitating him.
Arthur’s black bag is next to him, the zipper open, a syringe lying nearby. I pick up one of several vials strewn across the grass next to it.Midazolam, this one says beneath a bloody fingerprint. A powerful, fast-acting sedative. One that can kill.
I shift my attention to Arthur, who is clearly injured and disoriented. Questions swirl through my mind.How the hell did this all happen? And why did he want to kill this man?But judging by Arthur’s groans and anxious mumbling, I’m not sure the answers are going to be easy to find.
I set the vial down and move to Arthur’s side. We get him to his feet, and when I’m sure he won’t fall over, I pass his cane to him.
“Are you okay?” Harper asks, grasping his trembling shoulders, her eyes shifting between his. A whimper escapes his lips. He seems deeply distressed, his face twisted in pain. “What happened?”
“Poppy.” Arthur’s bloodstained fingers trail across Harper’scheek, his whisper a plume of fog in the cooling night. “I thought you were gone.”
Harper’s focus cuts to mine for only an instant, but that brief glance is laced with sorrow. She hides her pain with a weak smile when she returns her attention to Arthur. “I’m right here,” she says, catching Arthur’s hand to whisper a kiss across his knuckles. “Everything is going to be okay.”
