Chapter 2 #2
Unbidden, an image of Harper, bound and at my mercy, rises to choke the air from my lungs.
But this isn’t the kind of incapacitation that she craves from me.
This is the kind that was meant only to destroy.
I imagine the fear in her eyes. The panic in her voice.
The sweat on her brow and the pain in her face.
I imagine having that cheese slicer in my hand and pressing it to her forearm exactly as I did to Marc, and Dylan, and Trevor.
I imagine squeezing her bound wrist with one hand and dragging the sharp edge of the blade through her skin. Her desperate scream pierces my mind.
I slam the book shut and run to the toilet, falling to my knees on the tile as vomit spatters across the white porcelain.
I’m shaking when I finally stand a few long moments later to flush the toilet and head to the sink.
I grip the edge of the basin, trying to steady myself.
I stare at my reflection. Bloodshot eyes.
Pale skin, red blotches fading beneath a misty sheen.
I could try to convince myself that maybe I’m getting sick, or I accidentally swallowed seawater when I went diving for the van that revealed Harper’s true identity as Autumn Bower.
But I know it’s none of those things, and I don’t want to lie to myself anymore.
It’s the fact that I could have killed a woman who had nothing to do with Billy’s death or my life-altering injuries.
A woman who is so fiercely loyal, so determined to keep her promises, that I know I could have tortured her and she still wouldn’t have told me her name.
I could have killed her, and all her secrets and truths would have followed her into the grave I dug for her along the Ballantyne River.
I nearly made the most egregious mistake of my life.
And though I didn’t follow through, I’ve still treated her with contempt.
I’ve said unforgivable things to her. Uttered accusations and hateful words, threats against her safety.
And because I killed Jake Hornell, the gym bro douchebag who watched her from the shadows, people will be asking questions. I’ve put her in danger.
And I’m not the only one who has.
My eyes narrow as the name Arthur Lancaster blazes through my thoughts like an alarm.
He’s not only a danger to tourists he decides are worthy of elimination.
He’s a danger to himself. And more importantly, a danger to Harper.
He’s irrational. Impetuous. And manipulative.
Maybe some of these qualities existed long before his diagnosis of Alzheimer’s disease, but they might only become worse and more unpredictable with his condition.
And he might just care more about what he can get from Harper than about her safety and well-being.
If he really loved her the way she thinks he does, wouldn’t he want her to leave?
Wouldn’t he release her from a promise he knows she can’t bear to break?
My grip tightens on the edge of the sink, my knuckles bleaching.
Though it’s tempting, I don’t think I can kill him.
It would devastate Harper, and I can’t live knowing that I’m the one who delivered that blow, even if I could guarantee she’d never know it was me.
But I need to get her away from him. And I need to ensure he doesn’t kill again, creating more secrets for us to bury.
How? I have no fucking idea. But I’ll fucking figure it out.
With a determined nod at my reflection, I clean myself up and return to the bed, pulling out my phone as I sit. There’s a recent text from Harper that must have come through while I had my head in the toilet.
The cops are at the distillery.
The three dots of her next message in progress appear. They stop. They start again and stop a final time. When they don’t reappear, I call her.
“Hi,” she says on the second ring. I hear so much emotion beneath those two letters that land softly in my ear.
“Hi.” I blow out a long breath as tension seems to crackle through the line. “I heard about the distillery from Irene. Rumor has it that Yates was injured in a stabbing there.”
“What? How? By whom?”
“My guess is that it has something to do with Vinny, but I don’t know much aside from the fact that Yates shot the man who attacked him.
I didn’t really want to pry for more information, just in case it seemed suspicious.
” Another silent moment stretches between us, and I can imagine Harper chewing on her lip as she thinks through all the scenarios that might have occurred at the distillery. “Are you okay?” I ask.
It takes her a beat to answer. “Yeah. I think so. You . . . ?”
I look over at my scrapbook lying open next to me on the bed, turned to a fresh page. The one I would have used for Harper. I close my eyes. “No,” I admit. “I’m worried about you.”
“You are?”
“Of course.”
“I thought you were pissed off at me.”
“Maybe a little,” I say, running a hand through my hair to grip the back of my neck. “But I can be pissed off at you and still worry about you at the same time. And I can be even more pissed at myself, it seems.”
Harper’s breath of a laugh threads through the line.
“Yeah. Me too, I guess.” Silence stretches for a long moment.
Apologies and secrets and revelations seem to hang in the blank space between us, but none of those words feel ready to bear fruit.
“Lukas is freaking out about the distillery. He’s on his way to the manor house.
I’m going to meet him there—I’m sure he’ll have questions about the state of Arthur’s face unless I can convince the old man to go for a nap before he arrives. But I’ll keep you posted, if you want.”
I nod, even though she can’t see it. “Yeah, that would be—”
“Gotta go. Talk to you later,” Harper says, and just as I’m taking a breath to say her name, she hangs up.
I let out a long sigh, staring down at my phone.
Then I tear out every page of the scrapbook until only blank sheets are left. I burn them in the bathtub, watching as memories die in flames.
When the ash is washed away, I slide what remains of the book into my backpack with the weapons and leave the hotel room.
I walk past the sound of Irene’s gentle snore from her office next to the reception desk, thinking through everything I’m going to do today.
I’ll go back to the cottage. I’ll help Harper with Lukas and Arthur.
We’ll start talking through this mess that surrounds us.
Figure out how to tie off our loose ends.
Maybe then I’ll find a way to convince her to come to Tennessee with me, at least for a little while.
Determination drives me through the lobby doors and out into the sun.
But my steps falter when I see the sheriff’s pickup parked next to my SUV.
The urge to turn back into the hotel nearly overtakes me, but the driver’s door opens and Sheriff Yates steps out.
Just what I need. He turns to give me a bright smile as he slides his aviators off.
I force myself to cross the parking lot, the bag of weapons growing heavier with every step I take until I come to a stop in front of him.
“Mr. Rhodes,” Sheriff Yates says. He closes the door of his truck, his cowboy boots scraping across the white line that’s smeared with blood. His arm is strapped against his body in a sling. “Just the man I’m looking for.”
My heart twists against my ribs. “Really?”
“Yes indeed, son.” His boots scuff the stain as he turns to face me fully.
Though I don’t look down at the mark he stands on, it still snags his gaze and he glances down, shifting his feet to get a better look at the droplets and streaks.
When he looks up, a smile kicks up one corner of his lips.
I have a little moment of relief that he might be as incompetent as Harper claims, but that quickly evaporates when he says, “I have a question or two for you.”
The urge to attack him nearly overwhelms me.
A thousand thoughts scatter through the confines of my skull.
I could lunge for him. He’s got an inch or two on me.
Despite being in his late fifties, he clearly stays in shape.
But I could use his injury to my advantage.
Shoot him with his own gun. Could I get away with it?
Could I make it long enough to grab Harper and force her to come with me?
Could she disappear into a new life a second time?
Or do I just take all the blame to keep her safe? Would that even work?
Yates squares his shoulders, his eyes darkening as though he can see right into my mind.
“Cape Carnage is a pretty small place, if you hadn’t noticed.
I’m sure you already heard I took a knife to the shoulder last night.
Word gets around quickly in a town like this, especially when Irene is the source. ”
I nod once.
“Thought so,” he says with a good-natured shake of his head. “You’re a Search and Rescue specialist, aren’t you?”
I clear my throat when my heart stutters in my chest. “Yes, sir.”
“When are you due to head back home to Tennessee?”
“Fifteenth of July, Sheriff.”
He scratches his stubble with his good hand and looks out across the sea. Nodding, he draws out the moment, my pulse surging in my ears with every second that passes. “Well, I could use some help, if you’re up to the task.”
“I . . . I’m sorry . . . ?”
“We don’t really have the crew for something like this. An extra hand to help out would be appreciated.”
“Something like . . . what?”
“A man was just reported missing, and his wife is raising all hell about it. Seeing as we also have an ongoing homicide investigation at the distillery, we’re about to be a magnet for the press.
We have to get this shit tied up quickly.
I need someone who can organize a search.
Someone experienced.” He pats his injured arm and gives me a weary, half-hearted smile.
“I’m not as young as I used to be. This wound won’t heal so fast—I’ll be in this dang sling for another two weeks, at least.”
My mouth opens. Closes. It opens again, but no sound comes out.
Yates gives me a disheartened smile. “Not really the enthusiastic response I was hoping for,” he says as he claps a hand on my shoulder, “but I understand. This is your vacation, and it’s a big ask. I thought maybe you might want to do it for Harper’s sake.”
That spike of fear returns, driving right through my ribs. “Sir?”
“I thought you’d want to stick around for her. I heard you’ve been spending a lot of time at her place. It’s Cape Carnage—you can’t do much around here without people talking.”
“I’ve gathered.”
He pats my shoulder. “No worries, son. I’m sure I’ll figure it out.
Maybe I’ll see you around at Harper’s cottage, I should probably check in with her.
Between Arthur’s fall and that terrible crash with the soapbox car, she’s had a lot to deal with lately.
And Cape Carnage is a ‘community that cares.’”
The sheriff taps on his badge, where Caritas Communitatis is engraved into the center ring, and then he starts to move past me, headed toward the inn.
He only takes two steps before the words are tumbling out of my mouth like they’re chasing after him.
“Wait, I can help.” Yates pivots a slow turn on his heel and faces me, his brows raised in an unvoiced question.
“I’m sorry, I was just a little surprised you’d ask.
But I’m happy to lend a hand. Of course. ”
For a moment, Yates is expressionless. An unreadable, blank mask watches me back. And then, his features seem to bloom, their harsh angles and edges softening. “Really?” he asks, and I nod. “That would be a big help, son.”
I plaster on a smile, one I hope straddles the line of helpful and heartfelt. “Sure. Whatever I can do, just sign me up.”
“Great, then hop in the truck.” Yates slides his sunglasses on and pivots toward his driver’s side door.
“Now . . . ?”
“No time like the present, Mr. Rhodes. We’ve got a missing man to find.”
Sweat itches at my spine. The bag of weapons burns at my back. I shrug off one strap and then the next as I head to the passenger side and step up into the truck, laying the bag at my feet.
A country song I don’t recognize blares to life when Sheriff Yates keys the engine.
“Oh, hot damn. I nearly forgot,” Yates says as he twists the dial to turn the music down. He presses a button on the remote speaker microphone strapped on his injured shoulder. “Dispatch, this is Sheriff Yates, over.”
A moment later, a woman’s voice crackles through the slats of the speaker. “This is dispatch, over.”
“Send Deputy Collins and a crew over to the Capeside Inn with a field kit. Looks like there’s blood in the parking lot.”
“Ten-four.”
With a fleeting grin toward me, Yates turns the music up and throws the truck in reverse.