Chapter Swathing
SWATHING
Harper
DAYS HAVE TURNED TO WEEKS in the humid heat of summer.
July has bled away into August, and now that’s almost gone too.
The search for the missing trudges onward, though it’s diminishing day by day.
Even the press hasn’t bothered coming around much lately since the discovery of Creepy Jakey’s bone and his broken surfboard fin.
Though McMillan’s planted shirt never turned up, no one seems to care that much about finding him, maybe because he was a known piece of shit during his short stay.
Even interest in Evanston has started to taper off among the townsfolk.
But the Sleuthseekers? They linger, coming and going like garbage on a tide.
Their presence has been an unpredictable cloud over the town, but their questions are always the same: What’s really going on in Cape Carnage?
They’ve asked about the woman in the photo from their Discord, about their friend Charlie and the missing men, about La Plume and what kind of trail Sam might have been following.
They press about Yates, and just how much he can be trusted about his version of events with Sam and Vinny.
And the locals have rankled against the intrusion, at least according to the Bobs and Maya on the days when I’ve ventured into town to keep up my end of the contract to tend to the public gardens.
It’s the first time that life in my little sanctuary has felt like a cage I can’t escape from.
The only real reprieve has been Nolan’s presence, even though the thought of him going back to Tennessee after this search ends is a constant drumbeat in my thoughts.
I’ve come to depend on that moment when he walks through the door as a relief from tinkering around the property and looking after Arthur.
I worry about how brutally it will break me when he leaves.
So I should be excited for a change in this oppressive new routine of sticking around Lancaster Manor and avoiding the rest of the town.
I should be enjoying my first day doing something different in a while.
But I’m not. Instead, I’m forcing myself not to scowl.
And I’m pretty sure I’m failing.
The Whispering Pines Care Home administrator, Ingrid, leads us down the corridor, stopping at an open door.
“And this is our activity room.” She gestures with a fluid sweep of her hand as though it’s a showroom of luxury cars.
To be fair, the space looks objectively good.
Light floods the room through tall windows that look out across the sea.
There are musical instruments on one side, art supplies on the other, and tables set up for games and puzzles.
The few elderly residents in the space look content and well cared for.
Everything is clean and organized and welcoming. I should be happy about that.
But I also fucking hate it.
I hate the clinical smell of industrial cleaners.
I hate the pastel rooms that feel like dioramas.
I hate the locks on the doors to go outside, the alarm systems, the impersonal schedules.
I fucking despise the half-assed, hideous garden.
I loathe that this is how Arthur might come to spend his days like some fucking torturous procession through the dismantling of his personhood.
I hate it.
I hate it.
I. Fucking. Hate. It.
“It’s really great,” Lukas says as he pans his gaze across the room. “What do you think, Harper?”
“Yeah. Great.” I turn my focus to Ingrid and try my best to keep my expression blank. But I think I fail, judging by the tension between her graying brows. “Do you have a gardening activity program?”
“We do.”
“Would Arthur be able to have his own section?”
“I’m sure we can arrange something.”
“He has expensive shoes. How will you keep someone from stealing them?”
“Each room is monitored by security cameras and contains lockable storage.”
“What about pastrami sandwiches? And soy chai lattes with cinnamon? Do you serve those?”
Ingrid’s serious expression cracks into a knowing smile.
“The kitchen has all sorts of menu options. We can handle both.” She gestures back out of the room, following us into the corridor before leading us toward the exit.
“Look, I know this is a lot to process. It’s a difficult decision, and you can take your time to reflect on it.
I recommend looking at a few different care homes to help you determine the right one that suits Mr. Lancaster’s needs.
Nonetheless, we’re happy to put Mr. Lancaster on the waitlist while you consider your options. ”
I can feel Lukas’s scrutiny crackling across my skin, begging me to look in his direction so that he can ask a silent question that I’m not ready to answer.
“We’ll talk it over and then give you a shout,” he finally says, breaking his attention away as he extends a hand toward Ingrid.
“Thank you so much for your time. I really appreciate it.”
“Absolutely. If you have any questions at all, please just reach out.” Ingrid lets go of his hand to shake mine next.
“I know how much you both care about him,” she says as I force myself to accept her parting gesture.
“It’s a difficult transition to make. You’re doing the right thing by thinking it over. ”
I’m sure she’s being nice. Professional. Saying all the things she should say. But it leaves me feeling cold all the same.
“Thank you” is all I manage, and then I let go of her hand and stride for the door.
We’re buzzed out of the building and it feels like the first time I’ve taken a breath since we got here. We walk to Lukas’s car in silence. Tension rolls around us on the air-conditioned currents as he navigates out of the parking lot to start the twenty-minute drive back to the estate.
Another strike, in my opinion.
“It was clean,” he ventures, as though it’s a strong selling point and not a must-have. “And I liked Ingrid and all the nurses we met.”
I look out the passenger window at the pines and granite boulders. It’s not like I disagree. It was clean. The staff was nice. The programs were good.
“But I’m not ready,” I say quietly, following my trail of thoughts to their end.
“I know.”
“You are?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” Lukas sighs, rubbing a hand over his dark stubble. “I know Grumps will never be ready.”
We exchange brief, bittersweet smiles. “You’ll never get out from under the judgy bus,” I say.
“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?”
“I kind of would.” My fingers lock and unlock in my lap.
I spot a moose in the shadows of the forest as we pass, and I think of that fucking topiary that Nolan thankfully replaced.
My lips curve as I hear Arthur’s voice in my head from the night of the Beauty and the Beast performance, ordering a majestic moose like it was a plausible feat.
“He’s just got so much spark in him still.
I understand it’s not the easiest thing to manage sometimes, but I just can’t imagine him in a place like that, you know? ”
“Yeah, I know.” Lukas taps on the steering wheel.
I know this isn’t easy for him either, and it’s not like I’m family, but he still treats me like I am.
“I don’t like the thought of letting him down, or compromising his safety,” he admits.
His eyes shift toward the sea to our left, and I catch a glassiness in them when he refocuses on the road.
“I don’t think he’s ready either, but at the same time, nobody is.
And what if we wait too long and something terrible happens? It already has.”
Though I assess his features, I find no hidden meaning in his words.
I’m sure he just means Arthur’s fall and his hospital stay.
He’s right about that, of course. But there’s also the risk that rises with every day that passes—that Arthur might find a new target, a new tourist to take down.
Another person like Evanston, annoying yet unworthy of Arthur’s once-discerning taste.
And what happens when his memory erodes to the point that it exposes all his secrets?
What if he tells the staff about the man buried beneath the boiler, or the bodies at the silver mine, or the souls hidden beneath the floorboards of the grain shed?
What if someone understands that his words aren’t the delusions of his deteriorating condition, but they’re real? What then?
“I get it,” I say. “He seems to be doing a little better since the fall, but I know there’s never going to be a right time. I think maybe after the final round of the gardening competition is over, we should talk to him about it. See what he thinks.”
Lukas shifts a flat, side-eye glare in my direction. “He’ll think the idea is fucking awful.”
“Yeah. Probably. But maybe we can all go together for his next doctor’s appointment and collectively agree on some milestones. Once he passes them, then we’ll know it’s time.”
Lukas’s expression softens. A sorrowful smile lifts one corner of his lips. “You’re kinda smart, you know that?”
I shrug. “Maybe a little. And by a little, I mean a lot.” I whack him in the arm as he chuckles. “You know what else I am?”
“What?”
“A totally fantastic wingman.”
“Oh dear fucking god.”
“So, have you asked Max to the dance?” I ask. He rolls his eyes, and I hit him again. “It’s three days away. You don’t have much time. I bet she’s been asked, like, fifty times already.”
“Good for her.”
“Oh shit, what if she’s going with Julio Flores? I hear he’s back from his travels. Dude would totally punch a shark for Max.”
“The fuck?”
“That’s what I’m going to do,” I say, whipping out my phone.
There are a couple of text messages from Nolan asking how the visit went, and I start texting him back, keeping my screen tilted away from Lukas’s view.
“I’m going to text Julio and see if he’s asked her, and if not, I’m gonna set them up. ”