Ripen #3
“Well,” he says, taking another sip. “Boy’s got good taste.” Yates gives me a brief smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Speaking of Nightfog, I’m sorry if I put you in a tricky spot with Rhodes the other day when I mentioned I thought Jake had taken you there.”
I take a small sip of beer, using the brief reprieve to gather my thoughts. I’m pretty sure Yates is going to rally around the topic of Jake if he’s bringing up his name again, and unease churns in my guts. “It’s fine, he wasn’t bothered.”
“You sure?”
No. Not at all. “Yeah.”
“Rhodes seems protective of you . . . ”
I take a seat in the armchair as Yates lowers to Nolan’s favorite spot on the couch. He looks so wrong sitting there. Too official. Too unsettling. But Yates leans back against the cushions like it was his spot all along. “You think so?”
“You don’t?”
Of course I fucking do—he’s fucking obsessed. And I love it.
I shrug beneath the weight of Yates’s assessing stare. “Never thought about it, I guess.”
Yates nods, but it’s not a nod of agreement. He’s either disappointed by my noncommittal answer, or he doesn’t believe me. Maybe both. “No chance you’ve remembered anything more from your conversation with Jake when you saw him, is there? No idea where he was going, or what he was doing?”
“Nope,” I say, feigning disappointment. “Sorry.”
“Damn boy couldn’t keep himself out of trouble. First the DUIs, then the Peeping Tom shit. What a waste.” Yates’s focus shifts from the chessboard to me. “Did you know about that?”
“I knew about the DUI,” I say, swallowing down any lies I’m tempted to make in a mouthful of bitter bubbles.
“Well, let’s just say I’m glad you wound up with a nice boy like Rhodes.
Still . . . I hope Hornell either magically turns up from a weeks-long bender, or that the search parties find something.
I’d like to get at least one thing buttoned up around here.
” He sighs deeply, as though this is all just an inconvenience to his summer fishing routine.
“Damndest thing, isn’t it? People falling off cliffs and drowning in the sea.
That bloody Meschino wacko stabbing me in the shoulder after killing Mr. Porter.
No sign of Evanston, or McMillan, or Hornell.
And this Mahoney guy—I’ve been working with the police departments in a few neighboring counties, but nobody can seem to find any trace of him.
Other than a criminal record of some creepy behavior with women in a few other states, anyway. ”
“Well, at least when it comes to the missing, Nolan is very experienced,” I say as Yates rubs his fingers across the lines etched above his brows. “I’m sure something will turn up soon.”
Yates nods and gives me a faint, exhausted smile.
“His boss sure does speak highly of him. He’s been very generous to let Rhodes stick around and help us out.
I’m sure they’re eager to get him back to work, given the season and all.
We should be getting him on his way home in a few weeks, I hope.
” Yates raises his bottle to me as though in a toast, maybe one to my cracking heart.
“You think you’ll stay together once he goes? ”
I take a sip of my beer just to keep myself from smashing the bottle over Yates’s head. I want to tell him it’s none of his goddamn business. Of course I don’t, but I do give him another honest answer in reply. “I don’t know.”
“Yeah, I get it. Those long-distance relationships can be a killer.” When I meet his eyes, Yates gives me the essence of a sympathetic smile.
Maybe he knows that his words hit like a knife between my ribs.
Maybe he doesn’t. But he twists the blade all the same when he says, “How’s Arthur doing with his Alzheimer’s symptoms?
Max mentioned that Lukas is looking at some care home options for him. ”
“He’s doing fine, thanks,” I reply. “Better, actually, since his hospital stay.”
Yates gives a low whistle, and he shakes his head before taking a long pull from the bottle.
“Can’t imagine Arthur Lancaster in a care home, that’s for sure.
” He chuckles, his eyes sliding my way. They look almost the same shade as mine in this light, and for some reason, I find that disquieting.
“I imagine he’d keep the other residents and the staff there entertained.
He sure would have some stories to tell. He’s seen it all in Cape Carnage.”
“Yeah . . . he’s been around a while.”
Yates grins, and this time, it seems to light up his irises with a spark that often seems absent.
“Sure has. Tell him not to worry about these investigator types nosing around here. If they come around again, I’ll keep them busy.
” His expression suddenly turns somber. “Shame about his daughter. Don’t suppose he comes to the cottage much? ”
“No.” I put my bottle down on a coaster, watching the condensation pool at its base as I spin it in a slow circle. “He does not.”
“Figured. Probably for the best, seeing as how I don’t think Rhodes is much of a fan of the old man. Well”—Yates sets his bottle down, then slaps his knees and rises before I can ask him what he means—“I’d best be going. Got a hot date with Mrs. Yates, after all. Thanks for the beer.”
“Any time.”
My heart seems to settle its attempts to jump into my throat as I stand and follow the sheriff to the door.
Part of me wishes I could text Nolan to tell him about this exchange.
But another part knows the road I would set him down if I did.
I doubt Sheriff Yates would survive the night, and then chaos would truly descend on Cape Carnage.
“Say,” Yates says as he pulls the door open. “Is there any chance I could borrow that woodchipper of yours for a few days? I’ve got the hitch on the truck—I could take it now, if you don’t mind.”
My heart redoubles its efforts to crawl out of my mouth. “Uhh . . . it’s PTO-driven, not gas-powered.”
“That’s fine,” he says with an untroubled smile. “I can just borrow Bert’s tractor. Got some deadwood I need to mulch.”
“Sure. Let me just check with Arthur. I think he wanted me to get rid of the failed topiaries we just replaced.” The lie rolls off my tongue, but I’m worried Yates still could have caught every brief hesitation in my voice, every note that seemed out of place.
Especially when this entire visit has left me unnerved.
He’s seemed more observant than I thought he could be.
More . . . sharp, as though he’s a predator that wounds its prey but isn’t ready to kill.
Yet. “I can let you know as soon as I’m done. ”
Yates puts his hat on and gives me a nod, his lips stretching just a little farther to reveal the blunted points of his canines. “Appreciate you, Harper,” he says.
With a tip of his hat, Yates walks away.