Chapter II
II.
ROOTS
Yates
Sometime later . . .
August 26th, 8:04 am
“WELL,” I SAY AS I tip the brim of my rain-soaked hat farther up my forehead. “At least you’re consistent with putting things in floors.”
Autumn is a sentimental creature. It’s been useful for me. An unexpected surprise. But it’s also a layer of her chrysalis that must be stripped away if she is to transform.
I reach down into the hiding place in the cottage’s guest room and pull out the items from the cache inside.
There’s a map of Oregon, the back of which is covered with games of tic-tac-toe.
That was from video thirty-six of Autumn and Adam’s Vanventures, when Goonie broke down at their coastal camping site.
There’s a mug from Carlsbad Caverns with a bat on the logo and a chip on its edge.
Adam used it in nearly every vlog after their stop in New Mexico, even after the rim was damaged.
There’s a shoebox full of park passes. Campsite receipts.
Even a strip of black-and-white photos from a photo booth, four shots of love in a line.
Pieces of her life from before the catalyst of her metamorphosis. Harvey Mead.
I’ve seen a lot of shit in my day. Even if Cape Carnage were a “normal” town, it would still have its fair share of gruesome moments.
Deaths and accidents, public brawls and hidden violence behind closed doors.
And I have my own pastimes that add another color to the landscape of death that surrounds me.
My kills are art. Or they were, before I sacrificed the style of my craft to stay hidden here.
But Harvey Mead . . . he was a different kind of monster.
Unrefined. Cruel without purpose. He was a brute, little more than an animal that killed out of base need.
I stare down at the photos in my gloved hand, my focus unwavering from Autumn’s bright smile. And then I slip them into the interior pocket of my jacket in exchange for a memento of my own.
“One would say that your gaze was veiled with mist,” I quote aloud. I don’t need to read the poem written across the story of the little sailboat that raced to glory, breaking the record of the Flying Cloud. “Your mysterious, watchful eye! Is it blue, gray, or green?”
I place Autumn’s belongings into my backpack and zip it up, then place the rug back over the floorboards with a pat.
“In turn tender, dreamy, and cruel, reflects the languorous pallor of the sky.”