Winnow
Nolan
IT’S NOT THE COMMAND CENTER that I go to first when I leave the Cape Carnage Sheriff’s Office following the informal questioning about Charlie’s death, even though I know Yates might check with someone to see if I’ve arrived.
And it’s not the cottage or the distillery either, despite the pull in my chest that begs me to find the woman who is on the other end of the invisible line.
It’s the cemetery.
I slow as I reach the gates, which are open wide for visitors, though there are none I can see at first glance.
When I roll my windows down, panning my focus up and down the empty road, there’s no sound either.
It’s just still and quiet in the early-summer sun.
No one suspects the cemetery is the true scene of Peter Evanston’s final moments.
It seems like a fever dream to me, even though I was there.
What happened here only a few nights ago could be merely an illusion.
I take a deep breath and turn through the gates, driving on the lane that leads up the hill and toward the Lancaster family plot.
The plot is serene, offering a view of the rest of the sprawling cemetery and some of the nearby homes.
There’s evidence here, if you’re observant enough to see it: Trampled grass.
Marks in the ditch, as though someone was dragged through it.
But the cemetery isn’t on the search list, and I intend to keep it that way.
And Harper says that Arthur is adamant no one saw him.
The problem is, I don’t have the same trust in him that she does.
With a final glance at my surroundings, I walk into the Lancaster family plot, bordered by a low wrought-iron fence. Some of the graves likely date back to the founding of Cape Carnage. But there are two, side by side, that I’m particularly interested in.
The newest is topped with a weeping angel, her face hidden by her hands in despair.
It’s Poppy’s headstone, grief immortalized in marble.
But it’s the grave next to hers that I’m interested in: Vivian Sophia Lancaster.
The angel on her headstone reaches for the sky with an outstretched hand.
It’s pristine, no moss or discoloration on its surface even though more than thirty years have passed.
There are flowers—not cut, but growing—framing the marble stone. Le mie colpe travolgerà l’oblio, ma l’amor mio . . . non muor, the inscription reads beneath her name. She died not even two years before her daughter, at only fifty-three years old.
I slide my backpack from my shoulder, take out my scrapbook, and note the details from the headstone. I’m about to replace it and go back to the car when something glints in the sun to my left.
A silver bracelet.
Scrapbook in hand, I head to a neighboring memorial. It’s unusual, made of jade marble and carved like a crescent moon. Nondescript bracelets dangle from a series of brass hooks on the underside of the curve. One of them is familiar, A2BC etched into its silver panel.
Adam Cunningham, the script on the stone reads, curving down the side of the crescent moon. No dates, no note. Nothing more.
I hang my head and let out a long breath.
Harper must have brought the bracelet back here after I returned it to her. I wonder how often she comes here to grieve. If she speaks to Adam out loud, like I do when I visit Billy’s grave. If she cries, or if she looks wistful when she remembers his smile.
I’m not jealous. I know what Harper went through with Adam carved an indelible wound through her very soul.
It fractured her existence, and its jagged edges might never heal.
I feel a helpless kind of sorrow for her.
But if I’m being honest, I feel sorrow for myself too.
Because she might never be able to love me the way I love her.
That might have been cut right out of her, resting somewhere in the ash back in Texas.
Maybe not all of Autumn Bower walked out of that house alive.
I reach out a finger and touch the silver panel of the bracelet, watching as it swings in the light. I still remember the grief in her eyes when I set it in her palm. It’s hard not to imagine the swell of emotion she must have felt when she came here to replace it.
With a pang of anguish blooming in my chest, I take up my pen and roughly sketch what I see—the curve of stone, the name in block letters. The memories that hang in the summer sun.
As I finish my sketch and place the scrapbook in my backpack, the sound of ruffling feathers draws my attention to the top of a granite cross just beyond the confines of the Lancaster family plot. A raven preens its wing feathers before pausing to stare at me.
“Morpheus?” I ask, glancing toward the gravestone before I return my attention to the bird. “Come to take more gifts back to Harper?”
The bird watches me. But it says nothing.
I linger for only a moment, watching the raven as he resumes the task of setting his iridescent feathers back into place. And then with the heavy presence of Sheriff Yates looming in the back of my mind, I leave the cemetery.
I fight the urge to find Harper, forcing myself to the command center in the library parking lot instead.
Many of the volunteers are breaking for a late lunch.
I scan the crowd for her, unable to help myself or stop the sensation of disappointment when I don’t see her, even though I would have been pissed off if I did.
Or rather, more pissed off. I’m still reeling from my encounter with Yates and a day that’s gone so far sideways that it’s upside-down.
And I’m sure I look about as menacing as I feel.
I stride through the crowd, nodding and forcing smiles toward the people I recognize—Bert, who’s stuffing a hot dog into his face.
Bobby, whom I talk to briefly about picking up something from his place that I’ve been working on for Harper.
Selma, who’s been leading the search at the distillery.
Maya is handing out free samples of Bugfucker spray to volunteers, and I ask her to send a text to Harper on my behalf to let her know that I’m at the command center before swiftly moving on.
I avoid the gaze of Mrs. Evanston and the reporter she’s giving a tearful interview to near the registration tent, her demonic fluff ball clutched in her arms. I change course to avoid her gaze and make my way toward my destination.
The library.
The rush of cool air and the scent of books greet me as I enter the quiet space, a balm to the heat of this morning’s stress still coursing beneath my skin. I head straight to the reception desk and ask for a guest pass for the computers, then take a seat at one of the empty stations and log in.
I navigate to the archives of the local paper, the Cape Carnage Chronicle, and go back to the week of Vivian Lancaster’s death.
There’s a lengthy obituary listing her many achievements through life, headed by her photo.
She’s beautiful, with delicate features and a wide, effortless smile, the sea shimmering in the background.
No cause of death is listed, nor is there anything enlightening in the request for donations to a local wildlife sanctuary in lieu of flowers.
I check article after article in the weeks that followed, but nothing indicates an investigation by Yates or questions about the manner of Vivian’s death.
After broadening my search, the only detail of any relevance that I find is an anonymous letter in the opinions section after Arthur was declared the winner of the inaugural gardening competition ten years ago.
I’m willing to bet the author is Sarah Winkle, given the title.
“Poison Garden: A Competition of Preferential Treatment.”
“Christ,” I hiss after skimming the vitriolic letter that alleges the town council was covering its ass when it awarded the trophy to a known wife killer, though she never names Arthur outright. “She’s such a fucking cunt.”
“Shhh.”
I lock eyes with a woman sitting across from me—the same woman I encountered in the general store a few weeks ago when I was deliberating about buying a bug repellent device for the nightly exhumations with Harper. With a blush, I whisper, “Sorry. Sarah Winkle.”
The woman snorts, returning her attention to the screen. “Oof. Yeah, she really is a fucking cunt.”
Figuring I’ve embarrassed myself enough and probably won’t find anything helpful here, I leave the library and head back to the command center with the determination that I’ll get to the bottom of it tonight.
The thought of broaching the topic later with Harper twists my guts into an anxious ball.
I’m relatively sure it won’t go well, and that worry haunts me as I enter the tent.
As soon as I’m within its white canvas walls, I press my fists to the plastic table and let out a long breath.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I hiss. A headache scratches across my skull as though trying to unzip it. “This day is fucked.”
“Gotta say, I’m afraid I agree,” an unfamiliar voice says.
A paper cup of tea slides into my field of vision.
I look up, meeting eyes with a man in his mid-thirties.
His fair skin is ruddy with the heat, a sheen of sweat shining through his wisps of thinning brown hair.
“They said you’re a tea drinker. Thought you might need some. ”
The pain in my head screams at me to take a sip. Whoever this guy is, he’s just won that small brownie point he was so clearly after. “Thanks. Appreciate it.”
“You’re Nolan Rhodes, right?”
“I am.” I extend a hand out to the man.
“Thanks for letting me join the search,” the guy, his palm clammy against mine as we shake. “I’m Tylor.”
Alarms ricochet through my mind. “I’m so sorry to hear about your friend.”
“Thank you,” he says, letting go of my hand with a weak and fleeting smile. “You heard about that, huh?”