Chapter 2
BLIGHT
Nolan
IT’S FUCKING CHAOS.
Volunteers and police. The crackle of walkie-talkies and the hum of a drone. Press, roving the fringes like vultures. Evanston’s panicking wife, who doesn’t yet know she’s a widow. The incessant barking of their fucking dog.
I came to Cape Carnage for murder and a hot tub. I’m staying for a woman who might not love me and the man her mentor killed.
Not exactly the vacation I signed up for.
I pour a fresh cup of tea and shove a shitty ham sandwich into my mouth as I shift my attention to the maps spread before me on the folding table.
After holding a briefing here at the command center in the library parking lot, I sent most of the volunteers out to the woods beyond Simmons Loop, where I’m relatively sure they’ll come up empty for evidence, unless Arthur Lancaster has yet another clandestine burial ground that Harper hasn’t told me about.
They’ll be leaving the popular trails to bushwhack over hills and around bogs.
It’s tough country, and they’ve already reported their progress is slow.
The remaining volunteers are split between the lighthouse and the cape.
In another few hours, when the tide is low, a team will start combing the narrow beaches beneath the cliffs of the promontory—another safe place to waste their time.
But a looming sense of dread catches in the back of my throat as my gaze sticks to other areas of the map.
Ones that Yates could easily request in the scope of my search.
The silver mine. The grounds of the distillery.
Maybe there are other burial sites that even Harper doesn’t know about.
I could be sending a crew into the epicenter of her undoing at this very moment.
I groan. A headache splinters across my skull.
I pull my phone from my pocket. There are family group chat messages.
Useless social media updates. And a Sleuthseekers Discord ping from thirty minutes ago.
Ice races beneath my flesh. I’m about to open the app, but stop dead when an even greater terror catches the corner of my eye.
A familiar gait. Long, dark hair swinging in a high ponytail. Fucking overalls.
“Goddammit, Harper Starling,” I hiss.
My tea sloshes onto the map when I knock the table. I leave it to soak through the paper as I run to catch up with her. She weaves between volunteers, nearly making it to the registration desk before I catch her wrist.
“What in the absolute fuck are you doing here?” I whisper-snarl when she spins to face me.
A devious little smile creeps across her face as she gives me a salute. “Hello to you too, SAR Czar.”
“Either your self-preservation skills are nonexistent, or you’re trying to give me a fucking heart attack.”
“Probably both,” she says, waving with an untroubled smile to a woman who passes by. When she returns her focus back to me, there’s a flicker of unease in her expression. “You look hot in work mode, by the way. Your high-vis vest really brings out your eyes.”
“Un-fucking-believable.”
I keep hold of her wrist as I lead us toward the grass and away from the crowd, not stopping until we’re out of earshot from potential eavesdroppers.
The moment I let her go, her arms fold across her chest, defiance radiating from her in waves.
It’s as intoxicating as it is infuriating.
“Care to explain what the fuck you’re doing in the lion’s den? ” I ask.
“Same as you, Nolan. I’m blending in. I realized people would start talking if I didn’t participate, especially when you’re the one leading the search.
Remember how much gossip there was after we went to dinner?
Everyone and their dog is here. Literally,” she says, flicking a hand toward Killer Queenie, the wretched little beast that yaps with metronomic precision from Mrs. Evanston’s arms. As much as I hate to admit it, Harper has a point about the optics of sitting it out, even though I hate it.
“I’ve checked a box and made a brief appearance, and now you can stick me with some low-visibility team where I can pretend to give a shit about the guy who hit Arthur in the face. Job done.”
“There were reporters here literally half an hour ago,” I warn.
“I know. They’re at the Buoy and Beacon for half-priced lunch.
Trust me, they’re occupied. Those lobster rolls are .
. . ” She trails off, giving a dramatic al bacio before refocusing on me, her amusement suddenly absent.
“I promise I’ll be gone before they order the crème caramel for dessert.
Anyway, I wanted to catch you for a minute. Something has come up.”
My head tilts, my eyes narrowing. “Would it have anything to do with a certain Texas Tech sweater, an incense holder, or a knife?”
The unease I saw in Harper’s eyes moments ago ignites into a flash of fear. “What . . . ?”
“Those belong to you, don’t they? I mean, the other you.”
Her throat shifts as she swallows, her shoulders tensing. “Yes . . . but no. That’s not why I’m here—”
“Ah. So the Sleuthseekers Discord then.”
“The fuck?”
“What’s on it? Has anyone finalized their plans for coming to Carnage?” I ask, pulling my phone from my pocket to look for myself.
“What are you doing still lurking on the Sleuthseekers Discord?”
“Same thing as you, of course. Keeping tabs on them.” I scroll to the most recent messages.
My heart kicks against my sternum as I see a username I recognize, and a photo I remember from Sam’s room at the Capeside Inn.
One of Harper in the distance, her back to the camera as she walks away from our argument in Maya’s Magical Mixtures after I confronted her about the burn on her hand.
God, I was a such a dick to her that day, needling her with accusations about Arthur being La Plume and killing his own daughter.
Though I still don’t believe he’s good for Harper, it was a low blow, one that succeeded in causing her pain.
I swallow a burst of remorse and turn the screen to face her.
“Just like Sam was keeping tabs on you. And they might not yet know who you are or why you were important to his documentary, but they seem determined to figure it out. What if they think you had something to do with his death because he was tracking you? What then?”
I take a step closer, crowding her space, and Harper doesn’t back down.
The closer I get, the straighter she stands, and the only thing that keeps me from trying to scream my frustrations and fears at her is the sudden and overwhelming desire to drag her into the grass and lose myself in her instead. And I’m guessing she feels the same.
Her focus lands on my lips and sticks there longer than it should.
“It is only a matter of time if you’re out in the open,” I whisper, breaking the spell that crackles between us.
“We both know they’re coming, Harper. And if you’re in the middle of a Search and Rescue operation, all the misdirection or planted evidence in the world won’t save us. They will find you.”
We’re locked in a wordless war, staring each other down.
The tension fizzes between us. It’s in the air, static before a storm.
It’s the sharpened blade of her silver gaze.
She’s so fucking beautiful when she’s defiant.
Nothing makes me want her more. But nothing hurts worse than the thought of losing her.
“Just the two people I was looking for,” a voice says behind me, a sudden shock of familiarity that shatters our private moment. A hand clamps down on my injured shoulder.
I press my eyes closed, crushing a curse between my molars. When I open them, Harper’s focus is on the man behind me, a faint but fake smile curving her lips. She doesn’t dare look at me. Doesn’t risk communicating anything to me with a glance. “Afternoon, Sheriff,” she says.
I pivot to face Yates, keeping my body just enough between him and Harper that he’d have to get through me first to reach her. “How’d it go at Clarke Road?” I ask.
If Sheriff Yates is pissed that I just dropped a potential clue to Harper in an ongoing investigation, he doesn’t let on. He just grins at us both, sliding his hand on the grip of his holstered gun.
“Fine, fine. Not much to report, not yet at least. These old, rundown places are like a magnet for teenagers looking for a place to drink without getting rained on or caught by the likes of myself.” Yates lifts his good shoulder, his left arm still strapped into a sling.
“Small-town policing, you know? Same type of trouble every year.”
“I bet,” I reply. “Well, Harper was just about to head out—”
“To the volunteer table,” she interjects. I barely resist the urge to glare at her over my shoulder. “Thought I would chip in, you know?”
“That’s why I was hoping to run into you too,” Yates says to her.
“Oh, really?”
“I think we’d better add two names to our search.
One is a man named Sean McMillan. A tourist. We booked him for a night at the station when he caused a scene at the hospital on the night of June fifteenth.
Actually”—Yates pauses as he pulls a small black notebook from his pocket and flips the pages—“I think you might have been there when it happened, Harper. You called in an ambulance for Arthur Lancaster and were with him in the hospital that evening, correct?”
I turn enough to look at Harper, but she keeps her eyes locked on Yates. “Yeah, I was there. Saw a guy push over a nurse.”