THRESH
Harper
HAVING A SERIAL KILLER FOR a boyfriend comes with many benefits.
Nolan provides great support when getting rid of enemies, for one. He doesn’t mind trampling over a few laws for my benefit. He’s not put off by blood or guts. Keeps calm under pressure. Has steady hands—that one was particularly useful when he pierced my nipples. Sure, he might have taken his time with the needle, but I like the pain, so it was a win-win.
But do you know when it’s not so great?
When you’re the one in danger of being serial killed.
Maybe I should go back to the “boyfriend” part and amend that to “frenemies with benefits.”
The raven watching me from the branches of the oak tree caws a warning just before the back door of my cottage slams shut with more force than is necessary to close it. As I work among the rhododendrons and irises on the grounds of Lancaster Manor, I look over the stone wall and catch a glimpse of Nolan stalking through the garden. I glance toward the imposing Victorian mansion on the hill, hoping Arthur, my aging mentor, is deep in a nap and not about to roll down the slope in a golf cart he shouldn’t be driving so he can star in my next drama. Tugging off my gloves, I pull my phone from the front pocket of my overalls and open my most recent text exchange with Nolan from this morning.
We need to talk. Now.
Sensing something brewing, I’d tried to lighten the mood.
About how good the nipple piercings look?
No.
Obviously, my attempt was not very successful. That stamp of a single word remains his last text, which he sent over an hour ago. If not even the reminder of our super-hot shibari and nipple-piercing night is enough to tempt him, I’m pretty sure he’s here to murder me.
I sigh and pick up my ax.
The hinges of the garden gate squeak as Nolan enters the grounds of Lancaster Manor. He rounds the corner, ferocity carved into his features. His height seems more imposing than usual, his muscles coiled with tension. His defined jaw is clenched, his full lips set in a grim line. He’s even more beautiful when he’s enraged.
As soon as he sees me, he lurches to a halt. We stare at each other for a beat of silence as he takes in the scene before him. The raven drops to the garden wall, his head tilting from one side to the other. He’s assessing us and is ready to bet on a winner.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Nolan finally asks.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” I retort.
“Murder,” the raven says in his perfect impersonation of my voice as he walks across the stone wall toward the flower beds, staring down at the bloody tarp at my feet. “Pretty murder bird.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Thank you, Morpheus. Great timing, as always. You’re a credit to corvids everywhere.” I gesture to the dismembered body parts lying on the tarp, ready for the woodchipper. “I’m disposing of Arthur’s little mistake. The tourist guy from the cemetery.”
“‘Little mistake,’” Nolan echoes.
I shrug. “We couldn’t leave him in the shed forever. Arthur doesn’t like it when bodies stay in the freezer for too long. It’s kind of a high-risk storage place, you know?”
“Right. Sure.” Nolan nods sagely, the motion steeped in sarcasm. “As high-risk as, let’s say, putting a body through the woodchipper in broad fucking daylight?” He takes a step closer, though there’s still so much space left between us. And for some reason, it feels like it grows bigger with every second that passes, a chasm of unease that threatens to consume me.
“Would a woodchipper running at night cause more suspicion, or less?”
“Perhaps you could consider not fucking running it at all.” He drags a hand down his face, the strain of controlling his anger radiating from him, as though he wants to pace in agitation but checks himself. “Aren’t you worried about the drone operator coming around and seeing you?”
“I figured he’d be busy with other stuff since he probably knows Sam is dead by now.”
“Well, you’d be right about that. He is indeed busy with ‘other stuff.’ Like the fucking afterlife. Because Vinny Meschino is also fucking dead.”
I figured it wouldn’t be long before the news about Sam Porter’s death worked its way around town—a documentarian-slash-amateur investigator was always going to be a gossip heat score, and nothing is more titillating to a town like Cape Carnage than an “accidental” death. But his drone operator, Vinny? That’s truly unexpected. Especially as I was the one who hit him in the head, and though it’d been hard enough to knock him out, I didn’t think it would kill him. The last I saw Vinny, he was unconscious in the parking lot of the Capeside Inn as I drove off to rescue Nolan from Sam.
Though I’m as shocked by this revelation as Nolan must have been when the news reached him, I do my best not to let it show. Sometimes, it’s better not to let another predator catch you off guard, even if they are on your side.
Theoretically. “Well, that’s good, I guess.”
Nolan’s eyes darken.
“It’s not good . . . ?”
He shakes his head, and I let the ax drop to the lawn with a thunk. “Okay, so why don’t you tell me what it is, since you seem to know so much more about this than me?”
Nolan moves closer, each of his steps slow and purposeful. His eyes never leave mine, not even when he tears the ax from my grasp and tosses it behind him. I stare into their mossy-green depths and the brown wedge that slices through the bottom of his left iris. He stops so close to me that my chest could brush his with every breath if the air weren’t trapped in my lungs. “All I know is that he’s dead too, and now there’s a murder investigation.”
“Oh . . . kay. That’s . . . something.”
Morpheus croaks in the silence that blooms between us, settling on the tarp in a rustle of feathers. Though I glance over to watch the bird peck at the
man’s severed thigh, I know Nolan still doesn’t take his eyes off me. His gaze heats the pulse jumping in my neck. It feels like a noose is tightening across my skin.
“Was it me?” I ask. “Did I kill him when I hit him in the parking lot?”
Nolan’s expression doesn’t soften, a crease etched between his lowered brows. “I don’t know. All I’ve heard is that he’s dead too. So maybe it was you. But which you?”
My heart crashes against my ribs. “What do you mean?”
“Would they find Harper Starling if they were to lift one of your fingerprints or collect your DNA?” Nolan looms over me, taking up all the space in my field of vision. I know what he’s about to say before the question slips free of his lips. “Or would they find Autumn Bower?”
Even though I knew it was coming, those two words still strike me like a slap. Autumn Bower.
Memories bombard me of the night I left that woman behind. The bodies on the road. The scent of burnt rubber. Nolan’s desolate cries in the night.
The fear that flooded me when I realized my fragile freedom would vanish if I stayed at the site of the crash. And panic now that my mask is being torn away.
“How . . . ?” is all I manage on a thick swallow.
“I found your van when the tide was low this morning,” he says. “The identification number is still there. It didn’t take me long to put the pieces together on the Sleuthseekers Discord server. They made plenty of posts about that van four years ago, when you first dropped off the radar. Complete with lots of links to your old YouTube channel too. Autumn and Adam’s Vanventures . . . it’s certainly catchy.” I press my eyes closed, a flood of guilt and shame washing through me. When my focus returns to Nolan, his hard stare is still drilling right into me. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispers.
Fear slides down my throat. I’m not sure what I should say. I don’t want to lie to him—at least, not any more than I’ve already been lying by omission— but I’ve spent the last four years trying to forget that name and all the horror and heartache attached to it. And I’ve done everything in my power to keep my promise to Arthur—to not unveil my past to anyone. But it’s just so fucking lonely living as a ghost. Sometimes, I feel like my memories could
drown me. Like I’m always trying to keep my head above the past: the loss of my parents and the grief that followed. The terror of being trapped in serial killer Harvey Mead’s house. The guilt of escaping the cellar when my boyfriend Adam did not.
Nolan watches me, waiting, and I think he would stand here for an eternity if that’s how long it took for me to let down my defenses. There’s no more running from my past, at least not when it comes to him. He’s cornered me in the refuge of shadows. And maybe it would be nice to let in just a sliver of light.
“I couldn’t,” I finally whisper. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry,” he says, but the inflection isn’t what I expected for the fury that seems to be eating him alive. “You’re sorry.”
“Y . . . yes?”
His hands are on my face in an instant, framing me in warmth. There’s a glint in his eyes, a glassy shimmer at his lash line. My brow furrows. When Nolan gathers the composure to grit out his next words, he pauses between each one, as though he needs to imprint them into my very soul. “I. Almost.
Killed. You.”
I feel like I’ve been shoved off my axis, and nothing quite makes sense at this angle. I knew he wanted to murder me when we first met, but it’s different to hear him admit it with anguish in his face. Of course he did. He thought I was Harper Starling, the woman who killed his brother, and I let him believe the lie.
Though I force a smile, it feels fragile, ready to crack. “I mean . . . maybe you were planning to, but I probably would have killed you first.” My half- hearted attempt at humor does little to dampen the storm swirling behind his eyes. “I don’t think you tried very hard, if that’s any consolation.”
“It’s not.”
“I’m sensing that.”
“Did you also perhaps sense it might have been a good idea to fucking share that small detail about your true identity with me at some point?” he asks. “Or were you just never going to say anything? Were you going to let me keep believing you killed my brother and nearly killed me too? I thought you were the woman who drove away—”
“But I did,” I say, my confession hanging in the air.
The moment I left Nolan to die alone on that road four years ago is one of my worst memories. Maybe I didn’t have a choice when it came to losing my parents or Adam—there was no way for me to help them. But with Nolan, I did have a choice. And I didn’t choose him.
My nose stings, a burn flaring in my throat. Nolan is not the only one whose tears are on the verge of falling. “I saw you. On the road. I was at my campsite when I heard the crash and then raised voices. I heard a few guys freaking out and a woman arguing with someone. By the time I got there, three men were running toward a trail down the road. The car had driven away. You were . . . ”
I shake my head, but Nolan doesn’t let go like I thought he might. His steady warmth still blankets my cheeks, and though I try to look down, his gaze pierces me, refusing to let me go. It feels like he’s trying to resurrect the lost memory. And the least I can do is give him the pieces to fill in the blanks.
“You were screaming,” I say, starting again as the first tear slides down my face. “Screaming in this terrifying way I’ve only heard once before. Like you were being torn apart. Like . . . like you weren’t going to make it. And I was afraid. Afraid of what would happen when people found out who I was.”
A rush of guilt washes through me, burning like the kiss of acid. But somehow, there’s freedom in the raw wound it leaves behind.
“I heard another crash down the road, and I left you. I ran to find it. There was a woman behind the wheel of the car. As soon as I opened the door, I smelled the booze. When I found her wallet in her pocket, I took out her driver’s license, then I realized how much she looked like me.” I shrug, still trying to evade his scrutiny. “The car was just teetering there, ready to go over the cliff. I didn’t think anyone would miss another drunk driver. So I kept her ID and sent her over the edge.”
Nolan shakes his head in my periphery, though I still can’t meet his eyes.
“Why?”
“Everyone wanted a piece of me—journalists, people on social media, true crime junkies, even a fucking clothing company that wanted me as the face of their plaid shirts . . . it was exhausting enough as it was. I figured if I passed
myself off as someone else and stuck to cash jobs, maybe I could escape from my past. For a while.”
Nolan’s hands slip from my face as he expels a long breath, his chin dropping toward his chest. He turns away, shaking his head as he looks off into the distance. Though in some ways, it feels like a weight has been lifted from my chest, another one slips into the hole left behind, growing heavier with every moment that Nolan keeps himself shut off from me.
When he finally turns to face me, his eyes are still haunted. “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”
“No offense, but shoving a guy’s decapitated head into my bird feeder didn’t give me major trust or confidence vibes,” I argue. “You had spent years hunting me down. Would you have believed me if I did?”
“Every day I was fighting the impulse to wrap my hands around your neck and squeeze until you died between my palms. And you know it. You could tell, I could see it in your eyes. So wouldn’t it have been worth it to try?”
“I couldn’t,” I whisper, receiving a vicious, doubtful glare in reply. “I
promised Arthur—”
“Jesus fucking Christ—”
“I gave him my word, Nolan. Maybe that doesn’t mean something to everyone. But it means something to me. I promised to never tell anyone who I really was.”
“Even if it killed you?” he asks, but I don’t respond, biting the inner surface of my lower lip until the iron tang of blood snakes across my tongue.
“Who else knows?”
“Lukas.”
An exasperated breath leaves Nolan’s lips as he leans back and drags a hand through his hair, the sun-bleached strands among the chocolate brown catching the light.
“He’s the one who helped me get rid of my van. But he doesn’t know anything else about . . . this,” I say gesturing toward the heap of body parts on the ground. “He doesn’t know about his grandfather’s hunting proclivities either. He just thinks he’s . . . quirky.”
“That’s rich,” Nolan says on the heels of a derisive laugh. For a long moment, there are no words between us, only a long look that grows heavier
with every heartbeat. “So I guess if you’re willing to risk dying for a promise, then you’re going to stay put in this town, even if I tell you that you should leave. Is that right?”
I give Nolan a conciliatory shrug, and he presses the heels of his palms to his eyes, a heavy sigh filling his chest. Part of me wants to rage against him for proposing I break my word to Arthur. There aren’t many people left in the world who are willing to keep their promises, even when the price is high.
But I’m one of them. “I know the risks, Nolan. Yates could pull his head out of his ass at any moment and figure out that the trail of Sam and Vinny and even this guy leads straight back to us,” I say, gesturing again to the body at my feet. “But I can’t abandon Arthur. You, though . . . you can leave
whenever you want.”
“You honestly think that?”
“You’re not even from here. You’re a tourist.”
A little flash of hurt passes through his expression. My words have sliced deeper than I meant for them to go. He reins it in, but an echo of the sting remains. “You really don’t get it, do you?” he asks. “I’m not fucking going anywhere, Autumn—”
“Harper.” My cheeks grow hot. My skin is burning. A fresh wave of tears floods my eyes.
“If you stay here, you’re going to have to face her,” Nolan says, grasping my shoulders. He ducks his head to meet my eye level, as if he could force me to see the world the way he does if we’re on the same plane. “More of the Sleuthseekers are coming. With Sam and Vinny both dead, they will descend on Cape Carnage, and it’s only a matter of time before they know who you are. If Sheriff Yates doesn’t figure it out first.”
“Is that why you’re so pissed off at me?”
“I’m pissed off at you because you’re making it fucking impossible for me
to look after you.”
“Who said I needed you to do that?”
“I did. I said it when we were at the park, after the theater. And I fucking meant it.”
It’s the first time the realization truly sinks beneath my armor that Nolan has made a promise too. And maybe he is like me—intent on keeping his
word. I had never considered that he might be willing to defend his promises with the same ferocity that I defend mine. And the distress in his eyes, the anguish and determination, it’s familiar to me too. It’s the same expression I’ve seen in the mirror when I’ve wiped the blood from my skin and weighed my sins against my past and future. He looks the same as me, ready to put his life on the line for a vow.
But no matter how hard we try, maybe we aren’t destined to succeed.
Not when a siren wails in the distance.
It’s a sudden shock of sound. Nolan’s fingertips dig into my shoulders. His eyes widen, and I’m sure mine do the same. My blood crystallizes, ice dancing beneath my skin. A thousand questions race through my mind in an instant. Are they coming here? Should we run? Can we hide? How could I possibly explain why there’s a body lying at my feet? And how can I protect the man who’s standing in front of me, or the one who lives on the hill?
“It’s an ambulance,” Nolan says a heartbeat later, breaking a moment that felt years long. Even though we know it’s not a police siren, a tremble still remains in my flesh, a surge of adrenaline unwilling to subside. And I don’t think he feels any better about it either, not with the way his pulse thrums in his neck.
“Everything is okay. We’re okay,” I say with an unsteady breath. “Right . . . ?”
Nolan swallows. We break our locked stare to shift our attention to the dismembered body on the tarp. The raven tears a strip of defrosting flesh from a bone. When we look at each other once more, Nolan’s hands drop from my shoulders, leaving an even deeper chill behind.
“We need to cover our tracks. Not make new ones,” he says, and then he pulls my gloves from me before heading to the tractor to start the engine. “So no more murder.”
A beat passes before I nod. It might be a declaration. But in a town like Cape Carnage, I don’t think it’s a promise either of us is willing to make.
He’s still burning with anger. I can almost feel the heat in the void between us. And though I beg him in my thoughts to reach for me, to pull me into an embrace, he puts on the gloves and heads to the tarp instead.
Piece by piece, Nolan loads the body into the woodchipper, the knot of
dread in my stomach twisting tighter with every hunk of frozen flesh that’s chewed by the machine. And when it’s finally done, he leaves without another word.
