Chapter 5 #3
“That’s one thing I just can’t work out,” Yates says, scratching at his stubble as his gaze disconnects from mine, landing somewhere across the road.
When his focus returns to me, his chameleon eyes seem lighter than before, like a faded reproduction of the early morning sky.
“I just can’t fathom how a little dog like that would have made it all the way from the woods back to Maria’s Airbnb.
That’s gotta be what, at least two miles of territory the dog is relatively unfamiliar with?
At night, no less. In a town she doesn’t know. Quite a feat, don’t you think?”
“Closer to three miles, actually,” I say as I tear a piece from my croissant, giving Yates a nonplussed shrug as I chew.
“But I checked the weather reports for when Mr. Evanston was last seen, and it was foggy that night. Dogs scent better in the fog. She could have followed their path back to the house.” Yates hums in agreement, though I’m not sure he’s convinced by my logic.
“We’ll still send plenty of volunteers to Widow’s Point and the area around the lighthouse,” I tack on.
“I’ll send a team down to the beach when the tide is low at five-thirty.
They can search the trails at the Cape until then. ”
“I knew you were the right man for the job,” Yates says, seemingly reassured.
I give him a tight smile, returning my focus to my plate.
I’m still looking at the half-eaten pastry when the sheriff slaps his palm down on the table hard enough to rattle the plates as he declares that I’m truly a Tennessee boy from “the Volunteer State.” A tiny pot of jam slides off the edge, and my hand darts out to catch it before it can crash against the floor.
“Sorry about that. Great reflexes, son.”
“Thanks,” I reply, setting the jar back on the table.
“Did you play ball in college?”
“Rugby, actually.”
Yates’s eyes crinkle at the corners with what seems like amusement. “Ah, yes, I could see that. I was more of an arts man in college, believe it or not. But I played a little rugby myself, from time to time.” He pushes back from the table and drains his coffee mug. “Come on, we’d better get going.”
Yates waves to the barista, saying goodbye to everyone by name before leading the way out of the café.
The sun is still low on the horizon, but the air is already sticky and humid, lying over us like a film.
Yates wipes his brow with a handkerchief and slowly scans our surroundings as though taking stock of the familiar landscape to ensure everything is in its place.
“I’ll drop you off at the search command center and meet you there later,” he says when he seems to determine the street is to his liking. “I need to take Deputy Collins with me to the old Iver farm first.”
My thoughts immediately slice to Arthur, and the possibility that he had another dumping ground that Harper doesn’t know about.
As much as I’d love for the old man to take the fall for all this mess and leave Harper to her freedom, I know they’re too intricately woven together for that idea to become a reality.
My mind is still reeling when I say, “Iver farm . . . ?”
“Yeah. Strangest thing,” Yates says as he scratches his temple with a neatly trimmed nail. “Mr. Porter had some evidence bags in his car, marked up with Clarke Road on them. And that was the last searched location in the GPS of Porter’s rental.”
“What kind of evidence? Something he stole from the station?”
Yates chuckles, clapping a hand on my shoulder, right on the stab wound McMillan gave me with a metal spike just before Harper killed him in her garden.
The muscle is still tender from the healing puncture.
“I might run a small-town sheriff’s office, but I’m not about to let a troublemaker like Porter steal my evidence from under my nose.
” He gives my shoulder another hard pat, like he’s magnetically drawn to the wound, and heads toward his truck, motioning for me to follow.
“No, this is stuff he must have found and bagged himself. An incense holder, an odd-looking knife, and a Texas Tech sweater. I haven’t been in the old Iver farmhouse since I busted some teenagers for getting drunk out there last fall, but I don’t remember anything like that kicking around. ”
The occasional car. The country song Yates starts whistling. The scrape of his cowboy boots against the asphalt. All these sounds dampen as my fears crack like flares against the confines of my skull.
“You know what?” I say just as the sheriff reaches the driver’s door. “I don’t mind walking to command. It’s only a few blocks away. I don’t want to hold you up from getting to the farm.”
“Are you sure? It’s no trouble.”
I wave a hand and force an untroubled smile. “Yeah. The walk would do me some good. It’ll clear my head and help me think through all the details. Wouldn’t want to miss anything, you know?”
Yates grins, sliding his aviators on before he slaps the edge of the bed of the truck.
“All right, son. Appreciate it.” With a final nod, he gets into the truck.
A moment later, a country song pours out of the open windows, and he rolls away from the curb.
I start walking in the same direction, keeping my steps even despite the tremble in my legs.
The ever-present pain of my injuries from the hit-and-run seems to fade beneath the veil of panic.
The moment the truck turns a corner and disappears, I whip my phone from my pocket.
I open YouTube. I scroll through my recently watched videos until I find the one I’m looking for. I press play.
“Hey everyone, I’m Autumn Bower, and this is Autumn and Adam’s Vanventures,” Harper says, her smile warm and welcoming even though her arms are crossed to protect her body against a cold-looking wind.
Her blond hair whips across her face. “Come inside our 1985 Chevy G20, affectionately known as Goonie. I’ll show you how we stay warm when the weather is chilly. ”
Harper drops her arms. She motions to the camera.
I pause the video on the shot of her Texas Tech sweater.
I look up from my phone, staring into the heart of Cape Carnage. A pit seems to open inside me, ready to swallow me whole. Because I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to plant enough trails to lead away from Harper Starling when Autumn Bower is right there, begging to be resurrected.