Chapter 5 #2
I sling our packs over my shoulders and lead the way through the dark, taking Harper to my SUV parked in the shadows of the dead-end lane just down the road.
When we get back to Lancaster Manor, she takes the bones to the shed on the hill close to the manor house so she can put them through her woodchipper in the morning, and I unload the rest of our supplies before meeting her in the cottage.
“I’m glad those exhumations are finally over.
It’s been a day. At least we got some evidence out of the path of discovery,” Harper says, flipping on a couple of lights as she makes her way to the kitchen.
She takes a glass canister from a shelf next to the sink and scoops what looks like a mixture of peanuts and mealworms into a chipped coffee mug.
“I’ll put food out for Morpheus now so he doesn’t start screaming ‘murder’ at the crack of dawn.
What time do you have to start your SAR stuff tomorrow? ”
“I’ve gotta meet Yates at six at A Shipwrecked Bean for coffee,” I reply with an apologetic smile, “so the crack of dawn, unfortunately.”
All she says is a muttered “damn,” and then she heads out the back door of the cottage, not bothering with the patio light as she slips into the dark.
I stand in the middle of her living room, slowly turning and taking in the details that have become familiar, even comforting.
The chessboard with the single white pawn that’s been moved ahead, still waiting for the next player’s move.
The scent of the palo santo incense that she likes to burn.
The gardening books lined neatly on the shelf, held in place by a pair of wooden raven bookends.
I pick up a black knight from the chessboard and turn it in the dim light.
I have the urge to set it down not in its starting place, but in front of the line of black pawns.
To see if she’ll play. But it feels wrong.
Intrusive. So I set it back in the same square where I found it.
These pieces of Harper have become soothing to me, but suddenly I feel like an intruder in their presence.
When she comes back inside, Harper does her best to be hospitable, though her movements seem wooden and her words unsure, as though she’s going through the motions of what she thinks she should say.
Things like “Help yourself to anything in the fridge” and “The towels are in the cupboard next to the bathroom.” Following her around the cottage as she shows me where household necessities reside makes me feel even more like an interloper than the times I’ve spied from the shadows as she worked in her garden, or the days when I haunted her steps through Cape Carnage.
I can only take a full breath when we stop by the bathroom and she declares that she’s going to take a shower, quietly closing the door behind her.
I brush my teeth at the kitchen sink. Gather my bags. Fight the urge to burn everything in my backpack of weapons that I brought to this town with the intention of using on her. And then I head upstairs while the water of Harper’s shower still patters against the curtain.
I’ve changed into a pair of thin sweats and am sliding under the covers when I hear Harper’s quiet footsteps ascending the stairs.
She goes to her bedroom first, then she backtracks, knocking three times on the guest room door that I’ve left ajar.
“Nolan . . . ?” she asks, the light from her bedroom down the hall framing her silhouette. “What are you doing in here?”
“You need to rest, and I’ve gotta get up early,” I say, turning enough that she can see the reassurance in my faint smile. “You don’t need my alarm blaring in your face at five-fifteen.”
Though she remains silent, I can feel Harper’s surprise and confusion from across the room. When her bottom lip slides between her teeth and she drops her gaze to the shadows, I rise from the bed and make my way toward her. She doesn’t meet my eyes until I take her hand.
“I’m here to look out for you, Harper. Not smother you.
I want you to have your space, that’s all.
As much as I can give you, anyway.” I squeeze her hand, then press a kiss to her cheek, lingering only long enough to catch the scent of soap on her skin before I turn away.
“Get some rest. I’ll be here if you need me. ”
When I sit on the edge of the bed and run a hand through my hair, she’s still watching, her gaze traveling up my body, traversing over the scars that were etched into my flesh the first night we met.
When she finally meets my eyes, she gives me a single nod.
“Goodnight, Nolan,” she says, and slowly closes the door.
It takes a moment before I hear her footsteps padding away down the hall. And though she might leave me to my dreams, she always haunts them when I sleep.
The sound of her scream. The reach of her hand. The abyss of black water, the terror in her eyes as she sinks into the sea. I can never swim fast enough, kick hard enough. I can never grab her in time. Even underwater, I hear her calling my name. Nolan. Nolan.
“ . . . Nolan.”
When my eyes snap open, it takes a breath to reconcile the woman in front of me with the one in my nightmares. Harper is crouched next to the bed, her hair in a loose braid over her shoulder, her brows furrowed as she watches me blink away sleep.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, sitting up. I check her over, at least what I can see of her. No blood. No bruises. Just a look in her eyes that says she’s unsure. “What happened?”
“Nothing. I’m fine, I just . . . ” She trails off, glancing toward the door as though she should slink back through it.
But with an almost imperceptible shake of her head, she rises just enough to slide into bed next to me.
It takes my sleep-addled brain a moment to process what’s happening, that she wants a connection she’s not ready to ask for.
I remain still, reluctant to spook her and drive her away as she settles under the covers.
When I reach for the lamp on the nightstand, she stops my hand. “It’s okay,” she whispers.
“Are you sure?” I ask, and she nods against the pillow.
I lie back down next to her. Wrap an arm over her waist. Rest my palm across her heart.
It takes only a moment to fall asleep with her scent and her warmth and her steady, deep breaths against my chest. And this time, I don’t dream of the sea.
Or of my brother, or the blood that dripped from his mouth to pool on the road.
Or the hospital, and all the hatred and vengeance that kept me alive.
For the first time in a long time, I don’t dream at all.
I wake just before my alarm. Harper has barely moved, her inhalations slow and even.
I take a moment to just look at her and memorize the smallest elements of her features.
The precise curve of her nose. The tiny mole on her cheekbone.
A blond hair that was missed by her dye.
I almost buried these details in a shallow grave, I think.
I lift my arm from her side. Slide out of the bed. Tuck the covers in against her back and turn on the lamp, just in case she wakes. And then I pad silently out of the room.
After a quick shower, I stand at the kitchen window and watch Morpheus snatch peanuts and mealworms from the bird feeder as I eat a piece of toast and peanut butter.
When I’ve gulped down the last of my tea, I take the spare key Harper must have left for me on the counter last night and head out to meet Yates.
The coffee shop is the quietest I’ve seen it when I arrive a few minutes before six.
There are a few people I recognize—the three men who sometimes help Harper with the hanging baskets along Main Street, the woman who runs the general store and knows me by name for all the camping shit I’ve bought for Harper’s exhumations.
None of the unfamiliar patrons give me Sleuthseeker vibes—there’s only an older couple with a pamphlet for the lighthouse and a family with two young kids.
And of course, there’s Sheriff Yates, sitting at a table for two by the window.
He salutes me with a croissant and a cup of tea already waiting at my empty space.
I plaster a smile over the groan that begs to escape from my lips and make my way toward him.
“Morning, son. I assumed after witnessing the industrial quantity of Earl Grey tea that you consumed yesterday at the station that you’d want the same,” Yates says, gesturing to the seat across from him.
I huff a laugh, pulling the chair back, its iron legs grating over the stone floor tiles. “Thank you, I appreciate it.”
“It’s the least I could do.” Yates rubs his shoulder, his arm still strapped against his body. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you taking on the search.”
“Happy to do my part.” I back up my lie with an expression that I hope conveys the appropriate amount of helpful earnestness, though I really can’t be sure.
In reality, I’m both ready to do whatever it takes to fuck this search up, and scared shitless of getting caught doing it.
But judging by Yates’s grin, none of my darker thoughts shine through the deception.
“So,” he says, eyeing me as he takes a long sip of his coffee, “are you all set with what you need? You’re sure about concentrating efforts at the woods northwest of Simmons Loop?”
“Yeah, seems to be popular with dog walkers, and Mrs. Evanston said her husband had taken their dog that way a few times.”