Chapter 2
TILL
Nolan
NUMB. I AM NUMB.
My body feels anesthetized as I drive away from Lancaster Manor and return to the Capeside Inn.
I have to get away from that fucking cottage for a little while if I have any hope of figuring this out.
I’m not sure I intend to stay away from Harper for very long, or that I even could.
It feels like there’s an invisible line that always reels me back to her.
But I can’t remain there either, not with our history crashing into us.
I need to keep her safe, and I can’t do that if I’m not able to think clearly about the next steps.
When I park, it takes me a long moment before I exit the car.
I just sit and stare at the dark water that stretches to the distant horizon, the midafternoon sun reflecting off the waves.
But I’m not really seeing it. I’m searching for Harper in my memory.
I’m looking for her presence in that night four years ago when she left me behind on the road, though maybe not in the way I first thought.
Her hair would have been blond. Maybe it would have stood out among the shadows of the trees that lined the ditches.
But no matter how hard I search for her, I can’t find her in my memory.
There’s only pain, and grief, and fear. Only a flash of her face in the dashboard lights, a trick of time, a warped past. It was never her.
With a heavy sigh, I leave the vehicle, taking my backpack with me.
The space next to my SUV is empty. There’s a stain on the ground that crosses the painted white line that separates the parking spots.
Not oil or coolant, though it might look that way to a passerby.
It’s dried blood, and plenty of it. This must be where Harper hit Vinny in the head.
Maybe she did murder him. And whether she killed him last night or not, our connections to murdered or missing people are everywhere in this town, if anyone looks closely enough.
I mark it on my ever-growing mental to-do list to clean that stain up at night when no one is watching, and then I walk toward the inn.
When I enter the lobby, Irene has just finished checking in a couple who are making their way to the staircase with their luggage.
They look about my age. The woman wears a sparkling diamond but neither wears a wedding band.
They’re smiling at each other when they turn enough to be viewed in profile.
I doubt they’re Sleuthseekers—they’re not really giving off the vibe of armchair detectives who have come to seek answers for the deaths of Sam and Vinny.
It’s probably too early for amateur investigators to show up anyway.
But they will. And maybe it won’t be so easy to tell the newcomers who are harmless from those who are threats when they do.
I was right, we need to get rid of evidence. And I need to start with my own. The trail that leads straight to Harper Starling and the woman who is living in her shroud.
“Mr. Rhodes,” Irene calls. I turn to face her, suddenly realizing that I might have been staring at that couple for a little too long. “Are you all right?”
I do my best to force an easygoing expression. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You sure do keep a tidy room. At first I thought you’d checked out and I’d somehow forgotten.”
“No ma’am, just . . . ” I falter as Irene raises her brows.
I suspect she might already know I’m spending a lot of my time with Harper, but I don’t want to encourage more speculation.
More whispers. More eyes turning toward Harper with questions.
It makes my stomach twist uncomfortably.
“I don’t like clutter. Thought I’d take everything to the laundromat anyway. ”
Note to self: Spend an abysmal afternoon in the laundromat.
“Must be from your days in the firehouse. My grandson Jamie is a firefighter in Atlanta. I don’t think the boy knew how to make a bed until he ended up there. Now his home is neat as a pin.”
Though I shouldn’t be surprised she knows this detail about my past, which she could have learned from Sam, I don’t love it either. When I smile, it feels brittle around the edges. “Well, I’d best be on my way—”
“Say,” she interjects, two deep lines etched between her brows. She pushes her glasses up her nose, leaving me feeling assessed. Scrutinized. “Have you heard the goings-on? About Sam? And his helper?”
“Yes, I did hear something about that, but not many details,” I say as I slide my hands into my pockets and walk closer to the reception desk, keeping my steps slow and even.
My heart riots in my chest. I’m afraid to find out if our efforts to stage Sam’s death as an accident were futile.
But this is information I desperately need. “Do you know much about it?”
“Not too much, only that there’s an investigation going on at the distillery.”
I nod. The urge to take out my phone is nearly overwhelming. If there’s an investigation at the distillery, Harper needs to know, if she doesn’t already. But I don’t. I just wait for Irene to continue.
“The distillery is under renovation,” Irene finally says when the silence stretches too long.
“At first I thought it was a construction accident, but then I heard that Sheriff Yates is in the hospital with a serious injury. Someone said he was stabbed by one of the men and then shot him. Can you believe it?”
I snuff out the little flame of hope that appears with her words before it can burn too brightly.
I’ll admit—after talking to Yates a few times, I’ve had my doubts about Harper’s assertions that he’s inept.
But maybe she’s right if he managed to get himself stabbed by a fucking amateur investigator.
Nonetheless, my shock is still genuine when I say, “Really?”
Irene shrugs. “Who knows? Gossip can take a turn in a place like this.” She tsks and shakes her head, as though she has nothing to do with gossip, only facts. “But it probably won’t be long before we find out what really happened. The truth always has a way of coming out in the end.”
Her words stick to my brain like tar, a grim film over my thoughts. “I’m sure,” I say with a nod. “Hopefully, it will all blow over soon.”
With a tip of my head, I make my way toward my room.
It feels like I’m not able to take a full breath until the door is shut behind me. Even then, my fears constrict my chest, a vise that refuses to let go. And at the center of it all is Harper.
For a long moment, I just stand in the center of the room, thinking about how every concern, every desire, every emotion has somehow become tied to her. She’s woven into the fabric of me. And yet, though it enrages and intrigues and terrifies me, I don’t even know who she truly is.
When I finally break free of my inertia, I scan the suite and realize I don’t have any alcohol.
I could really use a drink to sedate the nest of hornets that has taken up residence in my skull, if just for a moment.
As I sit on the edge of the bed, I slide the backpack off and drop it between my feet.
Then I just stare down at it, willing myself to look inside.
I haven’t opened my bag since Harper gave it back to me.
My heart used to race with anticipation when I’d take out the weapons hidden inside, or when I’d add to my scrapbook of trophies—maps and photos, names and the crimes they’d committed, tanned slices of skin I’d harvested from my victims. But now when I look at my bag, I think of all the things I came here to do to Harper, and I only feel dread.
With a deep breath that does nothing to calm me, I grab the zipper and slowly pull it down. Every tick of the unlocking metal teeth is like a countdown toward an inevitable doom.
When the bag is open, I reach inside and pull out the garrote I used to kill Jake Hornell at Harper’s property.
Even then, I’d tried to convince myself it had nothing to do with the fact that he was watching Harper’s intimate, private moment without her knowledge or consent.
I told myself it had everything to do with wanting to scare her with his dismembered remains.
The truth is, if Jake hadn’t crossed my path that night, I’m not sure what I would have done. But in that moment, my desire to kill Harper was overcome by jealousy and the need to protect her.
I run my fingers over the thin wire. What if Hornell hadn’t triggered something inside me? Could I have killed her? I might have. It’s what I came for, after all.
I hang my head and press my eyes closed, letting the truth sink into my marrow before I set the garrote on the bed and reach for the next weapon.
A knife. A hammer. Pliers. The cheese slicer that I would have used to take a piece of skin for a trophy.
I realized pretty quickly upon arriving in Cape Carnage that Harper didn’t have a Memento mori tattoo like the men who were in the car that hit me, a reminder of the night of the crash that claimed my brother’s life.
I’d figured that had made sense—Harper had faked her death and run to Maine, while they’d remained in Maryland.
She had no more points of connection with them.
But it wouldn’t have stopped me from taking a piece of her.
I set the cheese slicer to the side with a trembling hand. And then I pull out my scrapbook.
Heavy heartbeats throb in my head as I flip the cover open and stare down at the first page.
Marc Beaumont, front passenger side.
Dylan Jacobs, rear passenger side.
Trevor Fisher, rear driver’s side.
Harper Starling, driver.
I run a finger over Harper’s name, tracing the letters I wrote nearly four years ago. I still remember what I’d felt when I’d carefully laid down each name. Rage. Determination. An unwavering commitment to avenge my brother, Billy, and a future that felt stolen from me.