Chapter Sown #2
“Great. Bring Rhodes with you. I hear he’s decided to stick around in Cape Carnage . . . ?”
“Yeah,” I reply. Warmth spreads through my chest and down my shoulders, sticking to my bones. “He has.”
“Well that’s just great. We’ll see you Saturday then. Five o’clock. Don’t worry about bringing anything, we’ll have plenty.” Yates tips his hat to me, gives a pat to Max’s shoulder, and then strides ahead to catch up with the mayor.
“Sorry about that. I’m sure hanging out with the town sheriff is not everybody’s gig.
I think he just wants to help me settle in,” Max says, leaning a little closer.
“Dad’s a bit overbearing. He likes to”—she hunches a little, twiddling her fingers like she’s manipulating a phantom puppet—“orchestrate things. You know?”
I chuckle, vaguely registering the sound of a barking dog that’s drawing nearer. “Yeah, I get it. He seems like a good dad.”
“He is,” Max says, her brows furrowing. “I guess I forgot how much he likes things ‘just so.’”
“I hear that whiskey is good for venting about overbearing family members. Maybe we could drop in on Lukas and do a tasting at the Lancaster Distillery sometime.”
Max’s gaze slides to mine in a crystalline side-eye. “Are you trying to wingman me?”
I snort a laugh. “Is it working?”
Max never gets a chance to answer.
The barking suddenly grows louder and more insistent, as though it had been buffered by the walls that surround our property and now there’s no barrier.
Max and I turn to see Mrs. Evanston standing at the gate.
Queenie bounces at the end of her leash, the pink harness straining against her chest. Mrs. Evanston looks like she’s aged ten years.
Her hair is unbrushed, her shirt half tucked in, her skin bare of makeup.
And her eyes, red-rimmed and hollow, are laser-focused on Mayor Patel.
“Mayor,” she calls out above the metronomic bark of her insistent dog. She starts heading up the driveway toward the judges, who are standing next to the topiary of the fox. “Mayor, I need to speak with you.”
“Mrs. Evanston—”
“You need to reopen the search for my husband.” Mrs. Evanston continues past us, the dog leaping toward me before making a beeline for the rose bushes as though she can’t wait to shit on the garden.
Mrs. Evanston drags her along, and the dog refocuses on the group ahead. “Peter is still out there somewhere.”
Mayor Patel is the picture of calm as she turns toward the woman, who seems to be unraveling with every step she takes.
Sheriff Yates edges in front of the mayor, but Patel stops him with a gentle hand.
“I understand your concern, Mrs. Evanston,” the mayor says.
“And I sympathize with what you’re going through.
When we spoke before the press announcement, I mentioned we will still maintain a small crew to continue searching in priority areas.
However, this isn’t the time and place—”
“But I need to speak with you urgently.”
The group descends into a fraught conversation, with Yates trying to gently escort Mrs. Evanston back down the driveway.
There are hushed whispers from the town council and gardening club representatives, pleas from the distraught woman, and firm yet kind assurances from the mayor, all set to the beat of the dog’s metronomic bark.
But it’s another voice that cuts through the rising desperation.
“Beastly purse demon,” Arthur grumbles, glaring down at the little dog. “That brutish boor let it defecate among my prized roses and didn’t pick it up. Inscrutable flea of man.”
I’m sure that every drop of blood evaporates from my body the instant those words leave Arthur’s lips. Everything goes quiet. Even the dog goes silent. My limbs solidify. It’s Max’s whispered “no” that snaps the infinite moment of dread.
I stride toward the group with Max at my side, a swell of adrenaline kicking my heart into a higher gear.
But it’s too late. Mrs. Evanston is turning toward Arthur, her jaw slack, her grip loosening on the leash.
Queenie pulls away from her and starts running around the group, barking at each person, though no one seems to notice.
“What did you say?”
“That the dog is a demon.”
“About my husband.”
“That he was an inscrutable flea.”
Mrs. Evanston’s eyes widen, her skin losing color, her expression briefly clearing before it collapses in slow motion. “What do you mean ‘was’?”
“Arthur, maybe it’s time to sit down somewhere quiet,” I say, jogging the rest of the distance to take his elbow in a firm grip. I give him a warning squeeze. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Evanston, but Arthur gets confused sometimes—”
Arthur twists his arm out of my grasp, shooting me a vicious glare. “I’m not confused.”
“—And the pressure of the gardening competition is a lot for him right now.”
“What does he mean ‘was’?” Mrs. Evanston takes a step closer. Yates wedges himself in her path with his hand outstretched to keep her back. “What happened to my husband? Do you know something?”
“I know he had no respect for this town.”
“What do you mean ‘had’?” A distraught sob breaks free of the knot that’s surely binding Mrs. Evanston’s throat in pain. Tears crest over her lashes. “Do you know what happened to Peter? Did you do something to him?”
I manage to recapture Arthur’s arm, but I struggle to keep hold of it without hurting him as he twists in my grip.
Mrs. Evanston repeats her questions as I hiss pleas to settle down into Arthur’s ear.
The dog circles our feet, as though zeroing in on the culprit of all his owner’s sorrows. My heart rages against my sternum.
“Mr. Lancaster is eighty-eight years old and has a medical condition,” Maxine says, stepping between us as I force Arthur back a step. “He rarely leaves the house. I’m sure he doesn’t know what happened to your husband.”
Mrs. Evanston’s distress morphs into fury. She points to Arthur with a shaking finger, pushing forward against Sheriff Yates. “He knows something, Sheriff. You need to search this property.”
Yates tries to calm the woman down as Queenie rushes between me and Arthur.
Her leash tangles around my ankles, and I stumble a few awkward steps before kicking my leg free.
The dog seizes her freedom, racing for the bed of hydrangeas and foxgloves next to the topiary.
I glance back at what she’s running for.
Something shiny catches my attention before my focus returns to Arthur.
But then I realize what I just saw.
My head whips around. My gaze lands on a narrow silver plate sticking straight up from the black mulch, its presence obvious from the right angle against the backdrop of foliage. There are pairs of holes down its length. I know that some are filled with screws. That those screws attach to bone.
Bryce Mahoney’s bone. The one that should be in my freezer. The bone that only one other person knew was there.
Nolan Rhodes.
I drop Arthur’s arm and rush toward the dog just as she pulls the bone from the soil. She starts running away with her prize, but I catch her leash beneath my boot and swoop her off the ground with my back turned to the group of arguing people behind me.
“You fucking little shit,” I hiss, and she snarls at me in reply.
I manage to pry the bone from her tiny jaws and stuff it behind my gloves in the front pocket of my overalls.
I trade her for a piece of jerky in the hopes that it will shut her up.
“Rat me out and I swear to god I’ll let Morpheus poke out your eyes. ”
She calms a little with a second piece of jerky, and I do my best to swallow down surge after surge of panic as I pivot and return to the group.
“You need to bring him in for questioning,” Mrs. Evanston rages, her ire directed at Yates now. “He knows something about my husband.”
“Leave him alone.” I push past Yates, shoving the dog into the woman’s arms.
“Poppy, get away from that woman, she’s causing a scene.”
I don’t turn around, though Arthur tugs on my wrist. “I’m not Poppy,” I say, low enough that Arthur can’t make out my words. But Mrs. Evanston can. “Poppy has been dead for thirty years.”
It takes harnessing every scrap of my thinning restraint not to lunge for Mrs. Evanston’s throat, just to have someone to lash out at.
Some way of getting this fury out of my veins.
Anger at her for ruining what could be Arthur’s last run at the gardening competition.
For forcing him dangerously close to unearthing his secrets.
Anger at Arthur for succumbing to the sharp edges of his abrasive personality.
Rage at this fucking disease. The way it mercilessly dismantles the man who gave me a home when I needed it most.
Anger at myself.
For getting my hopes up. For believing he could be getting better. For letting my guard down. For getting distracted.
For falling in love.
“He doesn’t even remember my name,” I grit out. The bone knocks against my chest when I press my hand to my heart. “I’ve seen him every single day for the last four years, and he doesn’t remember my fucking name. You think he remembers your husband? Get the fuck off his goddamn property.”
I turn and take Arthur’s hand, muttering an apology to the mayor and the sheriff and the gardening club representatives.
“Harper.” Max jogs to my side, laying a hand on my shoulder as I guide Arthur toward the house. “I can help.”
“Who is Harper?” Arthur says, leaning forward on his cane to glare at Max beneath bushy white brows. “Who are you?”
“It’s okay,” I say, but to whom, I’m not sure. And it’s not okay. I’m barely managing to keep myself together. I just keep focusing on the front door of the manor house. Once I get inside, I’ll be able to breathe again. “He just needs a break. We’ll be fine. But I appreciate it, thank you.”