Chapter Germinate #2
Yates takes in a deep sigh, letting it out slowly.
“Well . . . ” He shifts the papers back into the folder, his eyes returning to me as he closes it.
“It seems like nobody else heard anything either. Poor Mr. Abbott must have gotten too close to the edge and slipped. Wouldn’t be surprised if he was just trying to get a photo and fell—young folks these days are always more concerned about snapping the perfect picture for their social media accounts than their safety. ”
“Yeah, wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen that happen on the job.” Actually, it would. That’s a total lie.
“Speaking of such things, you said your phone is damaged? How’d that happen?”
I give him one of those “it’s been a shitty day” smiles in the hopes that he’ll commiserate, seeing as how he’s in a similar boat. “Just one of those unfortunate accidents. Dropped it when I was leaving the cottage.”
Yates’s head tilts. He doesn’t look like he’s in a commiserating mood. “Even with that fancy case you had? I thought they were supposed to be good for drops.”
“They are,” I say, forcing my brows from drawing together at the astuteness of his observation. “Just not when you drop them face-first on uneven stone, I guess.”
“Fair point.” Yates rocks in his chair a few times, an unsettling silence descending between us.
But if it’s bait, I won’t take it. I let the quiet moment stretch on until he slaps his hand down hard on the desk and grins.
“Well, if anything changes and you remember hearing or seeing something this morning, be sure to let me know, will you?”
“Of course, sir.”
Yates rises from his chair and I mirror his motion.
“The man who went over the cliff and the woman who just left, they’re both part of the same amateur investigator group that Sam Porter and Vinny Meschino were in.
They volunteered to help with the search before the accident happened this morning.
While I’m not keen on these types coming to town and stirring up trouble, I figured they’d at least be occupied doing something useful if they joined your search.
These types don’t accept facts easily, even when they’re irrefutable.
I gave Emma the heads up just now before I formally announce the end of the homicide investigation tomorrow, and I suspect I’ll need your help to keep them busy and out of my hair. ”
I nod, forcing a smile. “Sure thing.”
Yates puts his hand on my shoulder in that fatherly way he loves to do, always on the deep puncture wound that’s still healing from McMillan’s attempt to save himself.
“While young Emma is definitely not feeling up to trudging through the woods in search of missing people, there’s another man from their trio who’s still keen to lend a hand.
Name’s Tylor. He’ll be heading to the command center this afternoon to meet with you. ”
“So he’s just going to leave his friend on her own?” I ask, hoping Yates will consider calling this Tylor guy to talk him out of it. “She was clearly upset, which is understandable given the circumstances. Do you think that’s wise?”
“We can’t judge the things people do to manage their grief, son,” he says, tightening his grip on my shoulder. “Some people need silence and solitude, like Emma. Tylor might need distraction.”
He’s right, of course. Harper and I are living proof that there’s no singular method for managing grief. But it sounds so fucking disingenuous falling from his lips, like he lifted it from a self-help book, and it’s what he thinks he should say, but not at all what he actually feels.
Yates lets go of my shoulder and grins when I nod, then gestures toward the door.
“This Tylor fella seems harmless. These sleuth types like to roar behind a keyboard about all the things they think they know, but when you put ’em into the real world of an investigation or a search, they’re as helpless as kittens. ”
I’m not sure I agree with that analogy, particularly not after my encounters with Sam, but I give Yates an acquiescent smile anyway before leading the way to the office door.
“Hey,” Yates says behind me, “I keep meaning to ask how you got that nasty scar on the back of your neck. Must’ve been quite the story.”
My hand reflexively lands on the ridge of scar tissue, as though I can hide it from view. If Yates digs into what happened in Maryland four years ago, with his access and connections, he could unearth the whole story. About me. Billy. The woman who hit us. The real Harper Starling.
“Mountain biking accident,” I lie, shooting only a brief glance to Yates over my shoulder.
All my focus returns to the exit ahead, and on trying not to run through it.
The only thing that keeps my pace steady is Harper.
Every movement I make, every untruth that glides across my tongue, they’re not for me anymore.
They’re for her. “Just dumb kid shit, doing tricks when I shouldn’t have been. Looks worse than it was.”
Yates snaps his fingers. “Oh, right. Porter mentioned something about you mountain biking when I paid him a little visit.”
My step hitches. I’ve just caught myself in a domino of lies.
I’m not sure if Sam ever followed up with Wallie’s Watersports about the mountain bike I claimed to have rented there when he scrutinized the dark bruise on my arm in the Capeside Inn.
And I don’t know what else he could have told Yates if he did.
I open my mouth—to say what, I don’t know. But Yates beats me to it. “Anyway, good luck with the rest of the search today, son. I’ll check in with you later.”
I turn. He’s got that same fatherly smile that he wears so often it has laid subtle lines down on his skin, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
He extends a hand, and I take it. “Thanks for stopping by,” he says.
“And say hi to Harper for me. I do worry about her with Arthur sometimes—how much responsibility she takes on given his diagnosis. And his past.”
Yates shakes his head and lets go of my hand. My brow furrows. A spike of a new kind of fear drives through my heart. “What do you mean?” I ask. “You don’t actually think he’s La Plume like all these amateur sleuths believe, do you?”
The sheriff chuckles, shaking his head. “No, no. I don’t think he’s La Plume.
” Yates takes a step closer. Leans in a little.
There’s a spark in his eyes that he can’t hide, the flash of a hunter scenting distant prey.
My earlier fears claw at me again, that this man might be more than he appears.
And my fears only compound when he says, “But the death of his wife, on the other hand. Well, that was something I could just never prove.”
A fresh round of questions cyclone through my mind. What did Arthur do? And does Harper know? I can’t see how she wouldn’t—Arthur knows her most fundamental secrets, so why wouldn’t she know his? And if she does, why hasn’t she told me?
My fist tenses at my side
“A story for another day, kid,” Yates says. There’s a strange gleam of triumph in his eyes before he claps me on the arm. “Nothing to worry about, just a theory best left in the past. And Harper knows how to look after herself. Have a great day out there.”
Yates heads back to his office. And with a counterfeit smile that he doesn’t see, I turn and stride through the doors and into the sun.
He’s right. Maybe it’s best left in the past.
But in Cape Carnage, nothing stays buried for long.