Page 9 of Tourist Season
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Extra hot, Harp—”
I disconnect the call, halting as I slide the phone into my bag. My companion stops next to me, his gaze sweeping across my disappointed smile to leave a trail of heat in my flesh. “I have to go,” I say, tearing my attention away to look back in the direction we just came from. “I have to stop by the Bean again and then head to my neighbor’s place. He’s elderly and sometimes needs abit of help looking for things. They get lost a little more than they used to, I guess.”
“I’ll walk with you,” the man says without hesitation. This time, it’s his turn to blush, as though he offered more quickly than he meant to. “If you like, I mean.”
“Yeah. I’d like that a lot.”
The electric vibration hums in the air between us, stronger than it was before Arthur’s interruption. It’s as though every moment with this stranger only strengthens its power. I know I shouldn’t let it. This man is just a temporary presence in my permanent sanctuary. But maybe that enhances the appeal. Knowing you’re going to lose something before it even starts can be a balm as much as it can be a wound.
It’s a brief walk back to A Shipwrecked Bean, and though our conversation is light, there’s an undercurrent to it that I find difficult to define. When I laugh at something he says, I feel the way he watches me, as though a piece of him soaks right into my skin. When he holds the door for me to enter the café, his arm grazes mine, and the pressure of his touch lingers on my flesh long after I step into the line with him. I order Arthur’s latte, and we stand off to the side as we wait for Maddison to prepare the drink. With every moment that ticks by, I can feel the passage of time. And I think he can too.
“I really enjoyed our walk, as short as it was,” the man says, glancing down at the cup still clutched in his hand. “Shame I couldn’t have gotten the full tour on such a nice day.”
“I’m honored I at least got to show you Craft-A-Corpse. I feel like that’s the bare minimum accomplishment for a tour guide in Cape Carnage.”
He smiles, and I can detect a hint of nerves beneath it despite the easygoing mask he tries to portray. “Maybe if you’re not busysometime over the next few days, we could build a body …?” He shrugs, like it’s no big deal if I say no. “I mean, if you’re into that kind of thing.”
I try to withhold my grin, just to make him squirm a little. But it still ignites, a fire that burns beneath snow and can’t be contained. “I’d like that.”
“Great,” he says, running a hand through his hair as a whisper of crimson rises in his cheeks. There must be some kind of sudden epiphany that occurs behind his eyes, because they widen as the color brightens in his cheeks. “We’ve been talking all this time and I don’t even know who you are. What’s your name?”
“I’m—”
“Harper?” I break my attention away from the man to look at Maddison, who holds Arthur’s latte across the counter. “Here you go,” she says, and it takes me a moment to reach for my cup. I’m still stuck in a delay, an insect trapped in amber. Because I wasn’t going to tell him “Harper.” Even though it’s the only name I’ve used for the past four years. Even though it’s my first line of defense. Even though I’ve vowed to keep my real name and the past that trails behind it hidden. But for some reason, it was right there, ready to be exhumed.
My words feel brittle when I give Maddison my thanks. Like the notes have been hollowed out. Scraped clean.
And when I turn back to the man, every hint of light has been scraped from him too.
There’s a pause as we stare at each other in silence, a suspended moment that seems to stretch into eternity. He doesn’t just stare at me. He staresintome. Like I’ve turned my back on a tiger, and suddenly it’s ready to use its claws.
Maybe I’m being paranoid. This chill that ripples through my skin might be nothing. There have been a lot of “nothing”moments in the past few years. When you’ve seen the things I’ve seen, it’s easy to think that everyone is a monster lurking beneath a mask. So it could be just a strange little moment. A weird delay. Lord knows, I’ve been weirder in the last few minutes than he has.
I’m the one who’s the killer, after all.
A memory surfaces. One of vultures in a barren tree. They scattered when I was dragged beneath the branches that pointed skyward like bleached and crooked fingers. “They come to pick your bones,” the man said as he tugged me by the hair through the dust and prairie grass. I clawed at his hands. I screamed. But he only laughed. “Pick them clean.”
It won’t be me, I remind myself when the moment clears as suddenly as it arose. I’m the killer now. I’m the one holding a piece of a dead man’s leg and pawning it off as a sad little sandwich. So maybe this nameless guy is just having a delayed reaction that will clear in the next breath. Maybe it’s just a blip.
And I could make myself believe that if it didn’t take just a moment too long for his next blink to wipe the lethal patina from his expression. His smile returns. But it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
I take a step to the side, edging between the man and the glass case behind me. When I swallow, his eyes dart down to the motion. They brighten, but not with the kind of light that’s reassuring. “Good to meet you,” I say. But my words have a glacial edge to them. I can’t ignore this sudden burst of instinct. Iwon’t. I need to cut this off clean. “Enjoy your bird-watching. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
I don’t turn my back to him. Not until I knock into another patron and I’m forced to look away to mutter an apology. And when I glance back at the man, he’s still watching me.
But his smile is gone.
DECLINATIONNolan
IMARCH FROM THE DOORto the dresser. The dresser to the door. The door to the windows that face the sea. Back again.
But no matter how many times I pace across the room, it doesn’t change the ball of unease that burns in my guts. I don’t know what it is that bothers me most. Is it that interaction we had before the barista said her name? The shade of blush in her cheeks when she messed up the name of the sandwich in her hand? Was it the way she smiled at me with light in her eyes? The shyness in her expression when she dropped her gaze and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear?
Or does it bother me that I let myself become so completely spellbound that I didn’t even realize who I was facing?
Or is it something more sinister that’s burning me up to the point of physical pain? Is it the need to wrap my hands around her throat and squeeze until a desperate confession tumbles past her lips? Imustget it out of her. That admission. The final missing piece. I need to hear exactly how she saw it all unfold. She must have seen the fear in my face that second before we collided inthe dark. Her speeding car. My brother’s terrified yell. My unsuspecting body. A single, indelible moment that stained our lives forever.
