Chapter 31 #2
I lean closer to the mirror, the blond roots of my hair starting to mount their resistance against the rich brown.
When I place my hand on the counter, a sharp burst of pain erupts in my palm.
I jerk away and turn it over. There’s a splinter of something in my palm, the skin angry and red.
I open the drawers of the vanity and find a pair of tweezers.
When I work it free, the relief is immediate, a pain I didn’t really realize I was carrying around since I discovered Arthur’s body on the floor.
I set the splinter on the counter and look at it more closely.
It’s a tiny shard of porcelain, one half of it white, the other side jade green.
I close my eyes and try to think back to everything I saw in that room.
I don’t recall anything broken or out of place.
But maybe I was too devastated to truly see.
I gently pick it up with the tweezers and throw it into the trash, and then I stand in the shower until the water runs cold.
Every dream is of Arthur. Sometimes he’s right there, but he can’t see me.
In others, he turns and walks away. One time, he opens the cellar door and goes down into the dark, where I can’t bear to follow.
But I try anyway. And when I do, I’m trapped in Harvey Mead’s house all over again, naked and afraid.
I’m not sure if it’s the sound of the chainsaw that wakes me, or my unbroken scream, or Lukas shaking me back to consciousness. But I don’t sleep again after that.
The next few days pass in a daze. I don’t go back to the cottage.
I hardly even go outside, rarely venturing farther than the door of Lukas’s house to collect the casseroles and soups and loaves of homemade bread the townsfolk leave on the porch.
The only time either of us goes out all week is when we head to the funeral home to make arrangements for Arthur’s ceremony and burial.
But we get plenty of social contact from Sheriff Yates.
He comes by daily to ask more questions about Arthur’s murder.
I think he’s closing in on naming a suspect for the press that haunt the town like wraiths.
“Did Mr. Rhodes ever mention a man named Tylor Knightsbridge to you?” Yates asks during this morning’s visit, leaning forward where he sits across from me in Lukas’s living room.
I wipe my nose with a tissue, my eyes sore from an earlier burst of tears. I’ve practiced hiding my facial expressions so many times from Yates now that I feel like my mask of weary ambivalence is burnt into my flesh. “No. Why?”
“Knightsbridge volunteered on the search when it first started. He’s one of those amateur investigator types.
” When I scrunch my brow, Yates waves a hand as though brushing his question off, though I don’t know why he would have brought it up if he didn’t want to dig into it.
Something about that feels . . . off. “It’s not a big deal, just wondered if you or Rhodes might know why he recently showed up in town again.
He’s in the hospital—not sure if you saw his little .
. . explosion . . . during the chili-eating contest. I’m sure he’ll be able to answer some questions once he’s recovered a bit more. It’s been a little touch and go.”
I lift one shoulder, my focus falling to the floor. “I can’t help you, Sheriff. Sorry.”
“Please, call me Damian.” Yates reaches across the space between us, passing me a fresh tissue. I have no fucking desire to call him Damian, but I give him a weak nod anyway. “What about Sean McMillan, or Jake Hornell, or Peter Evanston? Or maybe Bryce Mahoney? Did he talk much about them?”
My attention rises from the tissue in my hand, and I meet Yates’s piercing gaze. “The men you were looking for?”
“That’s right—did Mr. Rhodes say anything specific about them?”
“I dunno,” I say, shrugging again. “Not Mahoney, no. Everybody knows Hornell must have been caught by Sharkimedes. We were talking about it at the food festival, remember?”
Yates just lets out a simple “Hmm.”
“As for Evanston, I just know they were looking in the forest. And McMillan—Nolan thought he probably went missing at Loon Lake.”
Yates nods, but I don’t really feel like he’s agreeing. “Nothing turned up at Loon Lake to indicate McMillan was ever there, so I’m not sure. I just wonder if we were ever looking in the right places.”
A chill dances between my shoulder blades.
If only I knew where Nolan had planted McMillan’s shirt, I would go out there and look for it myself though I doubt now that he even took it there at all.
“Well, you found Jake’s remains, right?” I say, hating myself a little for defending Nolan.
But if I want to be the one to kill him, I need to keep him out of Yates’s grasp.
And I’m increasingly concerned that it’ll be hard to do.
“Nolan was experienced in Search and Rescue, and this is a remote area. So maybe we just didn’t search long enough. ”
“Yeah,” he says. “Maybe.”
A long silence stretches between us. Yates holds my eyes, something resembling an attempt at fatherly concern taking residence in his features.
Maybe it’s my dire mood, or maybe there’s something lacking in his expression, but whatever it is, I have a sudden urge to claw at his face.
“I heard Mr. Rhodes bought an engagement ring at Gibson’s Jewelers. ”
I force the image of Yates’s torn skin from my mind and will myself to stay calm. “I wasn’t aware,” I lie.
“So you hadn’t talked about getting married?”
A swallow scrapes down my parched throat.
I look down at my hands, my knuckles red, the skin split from scrubbing at phantom drops of blood.
There could have been a ring on that finger, a traitorous little voice whispers in my mind.
The image of Nolan down on his knees, begging me not to end us, cracks open another wound in my heart.
And I wish more than anything that Yates would stop asking these fucking awful questions and leave me the fuck alone. “No. We hadn’t.”
“Have you heard from him since the day Arthur passed?” Yates asks. He rests a hand on mine, a touch that I desperately want to slip away from, but I don’t. “I just have a few questions for him, Harper. Are you sure you haven’t—”
“I don’t know where he is,” I snap. And I manage to cage anything more on my tongue.
I don’t mention that we broke up, or that I pointed a gun at Nolan and forced him to get up off his knees and leave.
I don’t tell Yates anything that will give him a motive, even though I know he must already consider Nolan to be the primary suspect if he knows Nolan’s been absent and he’s asking these questions.
“I promise you. If I did, I would tell you.”
Yates gives me a weak, pitying smile that does nothing to reassure me.
“I believe you, Miss Harper,” he says, placing his hands on his knees before rising.
I don’t rise with him, or acknowledge him as he puts on his hat and tips the brim to me.
“I’d best be going for a bit. I’m sure you need some rest.”
I nod. But I know this is a game we’ll be playing again soon.
“I know this is probably a bad time to ask, all things considered. But would you mind if we arrange a time when you’re settled for me to pick it up?”
I meet his eyes, tamping down the panic that swirls in my guts. I’ve cleaned Cookie Monster so many times with Maya’s Piss-Off! and run armfuls of branches through it, but still, the thought of it being in Yates’s possession leaves me feeling unmoored. Especially now.
I’m still contemplating how I should answer when Yates waves a hand in my direction. “You know what?” he says. “I’ll just swing by with my truck and grab it. No need to worry yourself. You take care now, Miss Harper.”
With a final wave that I don’t return, Yates leaves.
I watch him pass the deputy standing at the entrance of the property.
It’s a constant rotation of police presence here, guarding against the press and the unknown.
If my head weren’t swirling with worries and rage and guilt and fear, I’d probably find it funny.
Because if Nolan wants to get in, he’ll get in.
And he’ll kill anyone who stands in his way.
But I don’t think that’s what he wants. I think this game has only just begun. And that night, I spend hours imagining how I’ll win before I finally fall into a fitful sleep.
The next day, we bury Arthur Lancaster in the family plot.
Fog is a heavy shroud over the cemetery, draping the headstones in white mist. The air smells of the sea and the upturned soil.
It’s a simple ceremony at the graveside, just like Arthur would have wanted.
We keep the guest list small. The three Bobs.
Maya and Irene, who dabs at her tears with a black satin handkerchief.
Maxine. She takes Lukas’s hand and doesn’t let go.
Sheriff Yates and his wife, Fiona. Mayor Patel and the garden judging committee.
There are only two extravagances—the bouquets of fresh-cut flowers and the quartet with a soprano to sing “Lascia ch’io pianga” from Handel’s Rinaldo as Arthur’s casket is lowered into the grave.
We toss flowers onto the polished wood until it’s covered in blooms. And from beginning to end, my tears never cease.
We say weak goodbyes to one another. Give even weaker smiles and embraces. One by one, people say their last condolences and disappear into the mist.
“We wanted to give you this.” Mayor Patel passes me a glass plate.
Etched on its surface is Cape Carnage Tenth Annual Gardening Competition and a single rose.
Below that, Arthur’s name and mine. “It was a unanimous decision the day of the judging,” she says.
“Nothing came close to Lancaster Manor’s garden. It was beautiful.”
I nod and clutch the glass to my chest. “Thank you,” I whisper.