Chapter Swathing #2
“The hell you are.” Just after I send my reply to Nolan, Lukas rips the phone from my hand and throws it onto the back seat.
“Rude.”
“You’re supposed to be my wingman.”
“I tried, but you made it impossible. Why is that?” I ask.
But Lukas doesn’t answer. He chews on his words, his jaw clenching, his grip tightening around the wheel.
“She broke your heart. I get it. But maybe she broke hers too in the process. And now you’re spending all this time still loving her and pretending that you don’t.
You can’t bear the thought of anyone else stepping in.
But you can’t bear to forgive Max and shoot your shot either.
Sounds to me like you’ve gotten yourself into a real stalemate situation. ”
Lukas is silent for a long moment until he finally says, “I really fucking hate you.”
“Because I’m smarter than you. And you know I’m right.”
“Yep,” he finally says. A long silence stretches between us as Cape Carnage comes into view down the distant shoreline. “You didn’t really text Julio, did you?”
“Guess you should ask Max to the dance and find out,” I reply.
Lukas stews about this as we pass familiar landmarks.
The cliffs where we pushed my van into the sea four years ago.
The bend in the road with the lookout where you can sometimes spot whales out in the water.
The lighthouse with its one hundred and fifty-two steps.
Widow’s Point, where I sailed over the granite crest and nearly drowned.
And the town of Cape Carnage, with its hanging baskets and antique gas lamps and colorful Victorian houses.
And today, it’s packed with unfamiliar faces for one of the busiest events of the summer.
The Taste of Terror festival.
We head toward the park on Randall Road, where tents and food trucks and bouncy castles have transformed the open space.
It’s day one, barely noon, and it’s already packed despite opening only an hour ago.
There’s a stage at the far end of the park, and music from the folk band reaches us before we even make it to the parking lot.
Parking attendants wave us into the vendors-only area, and I grab my phone and bag off the back seat before following Lukas into the crowd.
Scents of food waft toward us on the August breeze as we make our way to the Lancaster Distillery booth.
There’s everything from gourmet hot dogs to elaborate dishes from countries all over the world.
There are desserts and cocktails and performers who weave through the festival dressed as ghosts of the shipwreck victims offshore.
But in true Cape Carnage style, everything is a little bit .
. . macabre. There are gummy eyeballs in drinks and cured meats laid out like flesh across skulls.
Craft-A-Corpse creations are often staged across booths.
Some of the vendor displays are maybe a little too creepy for the tourist kids, who point to them with sticky fingers, their eyes wide and fearful, though the children from Carnage never seem to mind.
It feels good to be among the people of my town again, even though I pull the brim of my cap a little lower and keep a watchful eye out for anyone who might look at me with too much interest. Sure, it fills me with a little fear. But an even greater sense of pride.
Especially when Lukas smiles at me over his shoulder when the Lancaster Distillery stand comes into view.
The booth front is made of reclaimed wood from the original distillery, the sign overhead painted in black and gold.
Two of Lukas’s employees are busy running the line of tourists and townsfolk who have come to sample the selection of whiskeys, many walking away with bottles in branded bags.
Lukas’s vision of revitalizing Lancaster Distillery is finally bearing fruit.
“This is amazing, Lukas,” I say as we head to the back of the stand, where a large tent made of old-fashioned green canvas is appended to the wooden structure.
We pass a generator that’s keeping two ice machines powered up through a series of sketchy-looking extension cords.
Crates of whiskey bottles and packs of plastic cups and decorative bags are stacked along the walls.
We enter the space behind the counter, the staff members giving us relieved smiles as they pass us a pair of Lancaster Distillery–branded aprons. “Arthur would be so proud.”
“Damn straight he would,” Bob slurs from the other side of the counter.
Next to him is Yates, wearing his staple civilian outfit of a plaid shirt and Wrangler jeans, who raises his plastic cup in a toast to Lukas.
“Though maybe Arthur would give his old friend Bob a discount on a bottle of the Reserve.”
“Nice try,” I say before Lukas is forced into an awkward reply. “Maybe if you didn’t sink so much money into that rickety old boat of yours, you wouldn’t have to barter for a discount on Lukas’s hard work. And on opening week too. For shame.”
I give him a wink as I pour a glass of the Reserve from the tasting bottle and slide it in his direction. “Since when did you get so sassy?” he grumbles.
“Since always.”
“True.” Bob takes a sip of the sample, his eyes closing as though he’s savoring the taste, but I think he might be a little too drunk to truly appreciate it.
“Maybe you’re right about the boat though, Harper.
Wouldn’t wanna sink out there and get eaten by Sharkimedes like poor Jake.
God rest him,” he says, crossing himself with the whiskey as I struggle to keep a triumphant smile from igniting on my lips.
Yates’s eyes slide toward Bob and narrow. “You know better than to start speculation like that around here.”
Bob gives a derisive snort, and the muscle in Yates’s jaw tenses with the sound.
“Yeah, but the search crew found his surfboard fin and a bone fragment on the beach last month, didn’t they?
And the bone was his, so . . . ” Bob’s brows rise as he shrugs, then he downs the rest of his whiskey.
I immediately top it up, because Brazen Bob is my favorite version of this particular Robert.
“Now, now. That’s still not conclusive proof that he was attacked by a shark, Bob,” Yates says, “the last thing we need is for someone like old Mr. Talbot to try blasting a vulnerable species out of the sea with sticks of dynamite because of some half-baked rumor. I don’t need a bunch of wildlife activists in town on top of all the amateur investigator wackos. ”
“I saw a fin off the ’Murb yesterday. Sometimes, you gotta call a fish a fish, Yatesy,” Bob snipes back before downing his shot.
I top him up again, and Yates’s focus slides to me.
There’s a tic of the muscle in his cheek, a tiny vein pulsing with his heartbeat at his temple.
He does not like this conversation, and for some reason, that brings me joy.
“Besides,” Bob pipes up with a slur, “I thought you’d be happy to have one case closed, at least.”
Exactly my thoughts, Brazen Bob, I want to say, but I keep my mouth shut.
“I am,” Yates mumbles, and it takes him a beat of delay before he tacks on an afterthought.
“I’m happy to bring closure to Jake’s family.
But I do still find it odd that it took so long for the bone and the fin to show up on shore after he went missing.
That’s one thing I just haven’t been able to reconcile.
And the rest of the board, or pieces of his wetsuit—why didn’t any of that show up?
” Yates’s head tilts as he regards me. “Don’t you find that odd, Harper? ”
A prickle of unease slips down my spine. I pour Yates a shot of Lancaster Reserve and slide it to him across the black tablecloth. “The sea works in mysterious ways, I suppose, Sheriff.”
“Guess you’d know that as well as anyone,” he says, toasting me before downing his liquor and examining the empty cup. “Arthur really did make something special, didn’t he?”
“He did,” Lukas says.
The sheriff smiles, his concern about Jake seemingly gone. “I’ll take a bottle.”
“Yeah, Yatesy.” Bob whacks Yates in the chest before slamming his empty cup down. A lethal glare flickers across Yates’s face before it disappears. “Count me in too.”
Lukas and I exchange a quick nod, Lukas beaming with pride. “I’ll get the bottles wrapped up,” I say, then head to the back of the tent where the stock of Reserve is kept.
The conversation with Yates weighs on me, but not for long.
Not when a line builds on the other side of the counter.
We fall into a rhythm. Pouring tasters, talking flavors, selling drinks and bottles.
Music flows from a succession of live performers on the stage, buoying our mood.
Sometimes we even dance behind the counter, making the most of the atmosphere and the warmth of the waning days of summer.
But that vibe is instantly cut short when I spot someone familiar approaching from the distance.
Tylor Knightsbridge.
He’s just the same as when I first saw him leaving the Bean last month, even down to the same clothes. Thinning hair. Pale skin. Blue T-shirt. Furrowed brow, his attention on something in his hand as he draws closer. A piece of folded paper.
I don’t know what the fuck he’s doing here. When he got back. Who he’s with. But I do know that it looks like he’s on the hunt, and I cannot let him see me.
“I’ll be back,” I say to Lukas, keeping my voice breezy. “Just need to grab a quick bite—I didn’t get a chance to eat this morning.”
Lukas is still moving with the beat of a song, totally unaware that danger is on a direct path toward our booth. “No problem, we’ve got this.”