FODDER
Nolan
“NICE SHAVING CUT YOU GOT there, son,” Sheriff Yates says when he steps inside the command tent, staring at the mark on my neck from Harper’s blade.
I turn away and check one of the maps. “Shit happens,” I reply.
“The way they make razors these days . . . ” Yates whistles, pulling his hat off to shake the rain from its brim. “Soon there’ll be ten blades on the damned things. Yours must be extra wide, that’s a long slice.”
“No, just the way I slipped, I guess. Anyway,” I say, trying to shrug off his scrutiny by pointing at a spot along the Loon Lake search area, “last I checked with Bob, his team was about a quarter mile from this escarpment.
Given the weather and how long it will take them to get back, I think we should call it a day. I don’t want them to miss something critical in the downpour.”
It’s only two-thirty in the afternoon, but I’m hoping another few hours of heavy rain will wash away any footprints I might have left when I hiked to the western shore and deposited McMillan’s shirt on a rocky outcrop near the deepest section of the lake after my visit to the search crew this morning.
Then they can find the “evidence” that he drunkenly drowned tomorrow.
I just want to get the fuck back to the cottage and have a hot shower.
Preferably with Harper. Other than a brief exchange this morning, I haven’t spoken to her, and it’s fucking chewing me up inside. At the very least, I could be following up on the notes I’ve left in my scrapbook, learning more about the enigma I came here to kill. And it makes me fucking irate that I’m spending all my time here for Sheriff Yates.
“Well, we might get some pushback from Mrs. Evanston if she’s lurking around—it’s a bit early to be calling it quits for the day,” Yates says as he checks his watch. “But you’re probably right about the weather. Wouldn’t want someone to slip and get hurt, especially not at the cliffs. The rocks get pretty treacherous when they’re wet, so it’s best to pull back the waterside crew too.”
“Will do. And Mrs. Evanston is back at her Airbnb.”
“Good. I was hoping I wouldn’t see that nightmare of a dog around. So strange how it took to Harper, isn’t it?”
My hand tightens into a fist at my side. There’s something insidious about the way he drops her into conversation, as though he’s trying to crawl beneath my skin. Maybe I’m just imagining it, my thoughts clouded by my obsession for her. But every single time her name falls from his lips, I fight the urge to pry his jaws open and rip his tongue right out of his mouth. Christ, it would be so fucking satisfying to squash that bloody hunk of meat beneath my boot. I wipe a dark grin from my face before the idea can take root.
“She’s got a way with animals, I guess.”
Yates chuckles. Claps me on the back. None of it feels quite right, like there’s a hidden meaning to his words when he says, “You’ve got that right.”
He smiles, then turns to stride toward the entrance of the tent. I open my mouth, nearly about to ask what he meant by that when Yates says, “Call it in. Get some rest. I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow morning—got a few new volunteers to add to the list.”
Yates disappears, leaving me with the clatter of rain across the canvas and the mountain of work I still have to do. I start calling in the search crews and packing up equipment and somehow it’s nearly four o’clock by the time I’m finally sitting in my rental car, staring out the windshield, pondering how the fuck I got sucked into this situation.
Fucking Yates. McMillan. Jake Hornell, that gym bro piece of shit.
Fucking Arthur. I’m still so pissed off at him for killing Evanston—if he hadn’t done that, we probably wouldn’t be in this goddamn mess. And all this shit is just getting in the way of what I need. Harper. It fills me with a wave of rage so deep and so blinding that I punch the steering wheel before I even realize I’ve made a fist.
I key my engine and drive to Lancaster Manor.
When I enter the cottage, there’s no immediate sign of Harper aside from the palo santo incense burning in its holder. The kitchen window is open, and Morpheus stands on the ledge where he’s peeling a strip of jerky from the hunk clutched beneath a claw. He croaks at me but doesn’t fly off, probably too comfortable beneath the overhang where he’s sheltered from the rain.
“I’m not sure if you deserve this,” I say as I approach his perch with slow, measured steps. He eyes me as I pull the lid from the glass jerky jar and place another piece within his reach. “But she likes you. Just don’t rat me out.”
“Murder cookie,” the raven says.
“I thought we had a deal about not ratting me out, you fucker. And it doesn’t give me much confidence in the ingredients,” I say as I wipe my fingers on a nearby tea towel.
“Nom nom,” the bird says in Harper’s voice. It’s a perfect replica, but somehow eerily hollow. “Cookie good enough for me.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. But one of these days I’m going to teach you some new words so you’re not so . . . murdery.”
Pivoting away from the insolent corvid, I scan the room once more for clues to Harper’s whereabouts in the silent space. I doubt she’s outside working on the garden in this weather, so I take my chances that she might be upstairs instead. “Harper . . . ?”
“Yeah . . . ?” her tentative voice calls back from down the hallway.
I change course away from the staircase and head toward the bathroom instead. I should probably leave her alone—it’s not like she needs me hovering outside the door as she uses the restroom, but something about her voice seems . . . off. “You okay?” I ask as I stop outside the door and rap
once with my knuckles.
“For sure.”
She’s definitely not okay. “Can I come in?”
There’s a beat of silence. Something metallic lands on the porcelain, and a moment later, there’s a quiet sniffle. Her voice is laced with feigned bitterness when she says, “Yeah. Whatever. It’s fucked anyway.”
When I open the door, Harper doesn’t turn to face me. Her hands are gripped to the edge of the sink basin. A pair of scissors rests next to the
faucet. And scattered at her feet are long locks of her dark hair.
I don’t know what this is. What it means. If she’s okay. If it’s a practical decision or one laced with trauma. Maybe both. I’m scared as fuck about what might be going through her head right now, and I’m not sure how best to ask. But I do know one thing: She’s fucking beautiful. The blunt lines of her new bob show off the elegant curve of her neck and the slope of her jaw.
The haphazard locks that haven’t yet been shaped give her a vigilante, end- of-the-world, badass edge. But it’s more than just the way she looks. It’s the determination in her face as she watches her reflection.
“I can’t get the back,” she says, not meeting my eyes when she grabs the scissors and holds them out in my direction, clutching them tightly. “Can you . . . ? Please?”
Harper has never asked for my help before. Not really. When it came to the exhumations, she had me over a barrel. She demanded my assistance in exchange for my book, and even then, I’m pretty sure she intended to kill me before holding up her end of the deal. Sometimes, it’s still hard to believe where we are now. I spent the last four years desperate to take a blade and carve her out of my life. And now, I’m about to pull a pair of scissors from her grasp, worried about what’s going through her mind.
I reach behind my head and pull my shirt off, draping it on the towel rack and then taking the offered scissors. But before I try to finish what she started, I set them on the shelf in exchange for her brush and a hair tie. She watches me in the mirror, her eyes a little red but her expression stoic.
“What do you need?” I ask as I slide the brush through her hair in a long, slow stroke.
“For the back to not look like it took a turn in Cookie Monster’s hopper.”
I huff a breath of a laugh. “Not exactly what I meant.”
“Um . . . how about a fully stocked weapons crate.”
“Still not what I meant, but that could probably be arranged.” The brush rakes over her scalp and her expression softens. I give her a minute, slowly repeating the motion a few times, letting her contemplate another answer. My fingers graze her neck. Harper’s eyes flutter closed as she takes a deep breath.
I lean closer, letting each word linger against her ear when I ask again, “What do you need?”
It takes a long time for her to think on this. I change nothing about the cadence of my brushstrokes, cataloging the smallest changes that I see in her reflection. The crease that appears and then softens between her brows. The way the tension spirits away from her shoulders. The steady rise and fall of her chest. Her eyes are still closed when she finally says, “If I say ‘safety,’ then I should leave Cape Carnage. If I say, ‘for my past to stop hunting me,’ then I have to face it dead on. But both of those things would mean breaking the vows I’ve made, and that’s something I won’t do. And if I say ‘I need you,’” she says, meeting my gaze in the reflection, “that leaves me vulnerable, with something to lose. I’m not strong enough to make you leave, and not brave enough to ask you to stay. So maybe the things I need are things I shouldn’t have.”
I set the brush down and section off the hair closest to her neck, tying the rest into a ponytail. Then I take the scissors and a strip of her hair, and make the first cut. “I called my boss today. I told him about the search and said it might go past the nineteenth of July, when I’m due to be back at work. I asked for some additional time to stay and help out, and he agreed to take it week by week with Yates for now. And I extended my reservation at the inn as well, just in case you need space. So, I’m not going anywhere just yet.”
Harper swallows. “Just yet.”
Our gazes remain locked in the mirror. The fact is, the more time I spend here, the more unfathomable it is that I even have another life. A job. A house. Drinks with friends, calling my sister, sweating at the gym, driving to my parents’ place in the country once a month for dinner. Visiting Billy’s grave. Plotting Harper Starling’s demise. I might have buried the idea of getting revenge on Harper, but can I really drop my whole life in exchange for a new one in Cape Carnage? And is that what she’d even want? She’s mine—that much I know in my marrow. But what does that look like in a few weeks? A few months? A year from now?
I slide one arm of the scissors against her neck and cut the next lock of hair. “There are Sleuthseekers in town now,” Harper says before I can voice anything more about staying or leaving. “I saw three of them in Maya’s store.”
The sharpened metal chops through a strand, the waves drifting to my feet.
Fucking three of them. I swallow a sudden burst of fury and cut again. “Did they see you?”
“No. I had my hood up and it seems like they still only have that one picture of me to go on. For now, anyway.”
“Where are they staying?”
“I dunno,” Harper says. “They were pretty corporate-y types, so I’m assuming the Capeside Inn. But from what they were saying in the shop, they’ll only be here for a week. I caught their names, though—Emma, Charlie, and Tylor.”
I rumble a low note as I continue cutting, the thought of driving these scissors into some unfamiliar person’s eyeball a brief and tempting fantasy. I make a mental note to check the Capeside Inn’s guest registry as soon as I can. I’m sure that’s something Harper would like to do herself, judging by the dejected sigh she heaves in front of me.
“So I guess I’ll be lying low for a few days,” Harper says, “but I thought I should take some extra precautions. Hence this . . . situation.” She waves a halo around her head, and I cut the next slice, then even out the subtle irregularities in the length of this first section. “I guess if they’re passing that picture around town, someone still might point them in my direction. But I figured it wouldn’t be a bad thing if I don’t match the photo at first glance, just in case they snoop around here while I’m outside.”
“It’s a good plan,” I say, squeezing her shoulder. The tension in her features softens in the reflection, just for a moment.
“I hope so. Though I’m worried it might confuse Arthur when he sees me.” She glances down at the sink and the worry is back, creased between her brows. A familiar irritation spikes in my chest, that none of this would be necessary if Arthur didn’t keep her trapped here. But before I can follow a spiral of unforgiving thoughts, she says, “Where did you learn how to do this, anyway?”
“I had a girlfriend once who was in cosmetology school. Guess I picked up some tricks when she was practicing.”
A look of absolute darkness flashes across Harper’s face, and I eat that shit up. Her jealousy is like fucking catnip. It’s a little chink in her armor, and all I want to do is wedge it open and climb inside.
“There were always mannequin heads lying around the house,” I barrel on.
“I guess the decapitated-head-in-the-bird-feeder situation makes a little more sense now.”
“I might have styled a few heads in my day. There was this one time that Gisèle—”
“Gisèle?” Harper echoes, turning enough to give me a single narrowed eye.
“I’m trying to cut straight here,” I say, repositioning her head to face forward. “Anyway, yeah. Gisèle. She was French. There was this one time that we—”
“Shut the fuck up, Rhodes.” Harper wheels on me and makes a swipe for the scissors. I hold them out of reach, my laughter filling the small space. Her acidic glare lands on my dimples and I swear I can feel them burning. “You dick. You’re trying to make me jealous.”
“I’m not ‘trying’ shit. I’m succeeding.” I laugh again when she makes another attempt to grab the scissors. A fucking adorable, irritated growl rumbles in her throat. “Hands off the weapons. I’m not done cutting.”
“Yeah, you are. Give those back—I’ll do it myself.” Harper makes one last lunge for the shears, but I’ve already slid my other arm around her waist, drawing her against me. “I bet her name wasn’t even Gisèle. It’s probably fucking Karen or Lauren, for fucksakes.”
I walk her backward until I push her up against the sink, burying my face against the warmth of her neck. “It was a long time ago. You don’t need to give a shit,” I say against her skin. “But I like that you do.”
I press a kiss to Harper’s surging pulse, tightening my hold around her waist when she shivers. Her hands grip my arms in a way that feels like she’s doing more than just holding on. Somehow, I get the sense that she’s letting go. Maybe even letting me in. “Why would you like that?” she asks, her voice breathless when I kiss her neck again.
“Maybe it’s good for my ego.”
“I didn’t think you had any trouble with your ego, Mr. ‘I’ll drag you out of hell if you run from me.’”
I pull away just enough to frame her face with my hands, the scissors still dangling from a finger, a silver spear in the periphery. But all my attention is
on her eyes, those pools of resilience and fear, strength and vulnerability. I thought I’d fallen in love before. When I look at Harper Starling, I know I was wrong. “I’ll still drag you out of hell, if you need me to,” I say, brushing a thumb across her cheek, sweeping away the dusting of clipped hairs on her skin.
Harper’s hand lands on mine. She leans into my touch. “You already are,” she says.
When she pulls me into a kiss, I think maybe I’m not the only one who’s in love. Maybe she just needs more time to know that it’s real. Another chink in her armor. Another crack in her shell. But I can’t force those fissures in her shield. She’s the one who needs to break them open to let me in.
With one last sweep of my tongue across hers, I end the kiss, pressing my lips to the tip of her nose before I turn her around to face the mirror. “Let me finish,” I whisper, gently pulling the elastic from her ponytail to free the next section of hair. Cut after cut, it becomes less irregular, until the final result looks intentional. My beautiful Harper, that defiance and determination shining brighter in her eyes.
We spend the rest of the day like a normal couple would. We fuck in the shower. We make a meal together in the kitchen. Harper puts Surviving Love on the television, and I pretend to cheer for every couple she hates until she jumps me on the couch and forces my confession. She checks on Arthur as I do the dishes, and when she returns, we go to bed, wrapped in each other’s arms.
The next morning, I’m up before she wakes. She doesn’t stir as I make my way to the dresser, where she’s made room on one side of each drawer for my clothes. I take out the pair of dark gray work pants I know she likes but won’t admit it, and a T-shirt of technical fabric to cope with the suffocating humidity of early summer in Maine. When I open the underwear drawer, there’s new lingerie on her side, the tags still present from the Starlight Boutique on Main Street. A purple lace thong with a matching bra. A red one-piece of mesh fabric. My cock instantly hardens with the thought of her nipple piercings gleaming beneath the thin fabric. I glance over to the bed, where she sleeps soundly, and I make a mental note to talk to her about fucking her awake sometime. Christ, if she’s into that, I might never recover.
I pick up a lacy black catsuit just to see how much it covers, but my attention snags on a jewelry box lying beneath it. Harper rarely wears jewelry, and the idea sparks to life that I could buy her some if I knew what she likes. But when I open the box, I realize I’ve made a mistake. I pull out a damaged men’s TAG Heuer Autavia watch, the crystal shattered, the unmoving hands and a date of the twenty-fifth barely visible through the broken glass. I flip it over. To adventure, the engraved script on the back
reads.
It must have belonged to Adam.
It’s not jealousy that chips away at me when I place the watch back in the box and set the lingerie on its surface. When I close the drawer and turn to face my sleeping Harper, it’s only heartache that I feel. I know the grief and guilt that haunt her. And I know they never let go.
I drift silently back to the bed and kneel beside her, listening to the deep, slow breaths that pass through her parted lips. Then I press a gentle kiss to her hair and slip away.
The muted hints of dawn cast the ground floor of the cottage in a gray light. I set up the stovetop coffee maker for Harper. The image of the damaged watch still haunts my thoughts as I tear a piece of paper from the notepad next to the toaster. I start writing, unsure if it’s too much. Or not enough. But it makes me think of her.
I saw this just after I got out of the hospital. It’s the oldest piece of written music—called “The Song of Seikilos.” The words kind of stuck with me, and now they remind me of you:
While you live, shine
Fear no grief at all
Life exists only for a short while
And time demands its toll ~N
I fold the note in half, then grab my gear and leave the cottage.
But my day won’t start at the search. My day will start at the Capeside Inn.
I park in my favorite spot, taking a moment to look out at the sea that stretches past the cliffs the way I always do. When I first arrived here, my blood came alive with the thought of bringing vengeance to Harper’s doorstep. And now, the need to protect her consumes me.
I get out of the vehicle and stride to the lobby.
It’s nearly five-thirty in the morning when I enter, and as expected, Irene is not at the front desk. She’s back in the kitchen, starting to prepare breakfast for the guests who are likely still sleeping. I take my opportunity to slip behind the counter, and flip open her reservation book to check out the list of recent guests.
Charlie Abbott + two guests (Emma, Tylor)
Harper was right—they’re all due to check out in a week. And they’re all sharing room 116, the suite that’s next to mine.
That’s all I fucking need—for Irene to tell them how I piloted the drone for their beloved cult leader. I can almost hear her now. Did you know Mr.
Rhodes went out with Sam to film for his documentary? Nolan is a Search and Rescue specialist. Used to be a firefighter before an accident! His social
security number is— “Christ,” I hiss as I close the book.
I tilt my head to one side, relishing the pop of the vertebrae, the release of building tension. It helps, but not enough. Harper’s words from yesterday echo in my mind: Maybe the things I need are things I shouldn’t have. She probably has a point, because the thing I really need is to kill the occupants of room 116 and paint the walls with their fucking blood. I’m pretty sure it’s the only way I’d sleep peacefully tonight.
I sigh, dragging a hand down my face. I’m nearly set to leave the reception desk and head to the Search and Rescue command center when two voices approach from down the hall.
“—and then I’ll get changed. Tylor and I can meet you in the breakfast area,” a woman says as I duck into the shadows of Irene’s office. “I’m sure Irene won’t mind if we just chill there for a minute and wait until breakfast is ready.”
“Yeah, sounds like a plan. Who’s the guy Sheriff Yates said we’d have to
find to join the search?”
“Rhodes,” she replies. “Nolan Rhodes.”
My blood crystallizes as I peer around the edge of the door. A man in cargo pants and hiking boots and a woman in pajamas are walking through the lobby, backpacks slung over their shoulders. And one of those backpacks has a patch on it—a patch that says Sleuthseekers.
It’s Emma and Charlie.
I watch as they each carry the handle of a heavy cooler between them.
They sidestep out the door and into the rising sun, shuffling out of view.
They must be the new volunteers Yates mentioned yesterday. He didn’t seem to like their type—at least, that’s the impression he gave the time I waltzed into his office with a post-mushroom crash and some half-baked plan to protect the woman I came here to kill. I’m sure he likes them even less with that knife wound still healing in his shoulder. Maybe they lied to him and claimed to be well-intentioned visitors wanting to help, or maybe he figured it would be easier to keep them out of his business if he occupied them with the search. Either way, the effect is the same. It puts them a step closer to our secrets. And that leaves only one thought in my mind: Harper is in danger.
My fists are tight at my sides, my body humming with tension as the woman returns and walks through the lobby, her focus entirely on her phone.
When I’m sure she’s down the corridor, I slink out of the office and head for the door, closing it quietly behind me.
I halt just outside the inn. Motionless. Muscles coiled. I watch the man standing just beyond the parked cars, at the cliff’s edge. His phone is raised.
He’s taking a picture of the sunrise.
My steps are light and nearly soundless as I run straight for him.
Time slows. He hears my footfalls as I hit the granite. He lowers his phone and starts to turn. There’s a smile on his face, as though he’s expecting one of his friends. It transforms into confusion the instant before I barrel into him.
And then fear, as I take us both over the edge of the cliff.
We fall together. He screams. The impact of hitting the water together jars the injuries in my body that have never fully healed. But the pain is dulled by adrenaline. And purpose.
The man thrashes beneath me as we plunge into the cold water. He kicks for the surface and tries to reach past me in a flurry of white water, but I grab him by the throat and swim for the depths. He’s a fit guy. But it takes him a beat too long to process everything: The disbelief that someone would take him over the cliff. The awareness that I’m dragging us deeper. The realization that I’m aiming to kill. Those brief delays add up, and they give me the advantage.
By the time he truly starts to fight back, he’s already lost.
He tries to punch. To kick. To scream. A torrent of bubbles escape from his mouth, his horrified pleas muted by water. But I keep calm, saving my air. I tighten my grip around his throat and stay focused on my destination— the black nothingness beneath us. And I don’t stop. Not until I feel the first spasm of his body and the weakness in his limbs.
I watch his face as the end takes hold. It’s just like it was with Harper that day, the way the terror dissolves and biology replaces emotion. His features soften. His eyes become unfocused. The rhythmic convulsions of his chest slow, the final bubbles trailing from his mouth toward the surface beyond the reach of his slack hand. I let him go when I’m sure it’s not a ruse. He drifts away from me, suspended in the deep blue, and I kick for the light with the last of my air.
I breach the surface with a gasp and look toward the horizon, where the clouds are painted in shades of pale pink and yellow. Even though I know it shouldn’t, and that I might have killed one risk just to breathe life into another, a sense of calm still washes over me. I know it won’t last long in this place. But I savor it nonetheless.
I still remember every moment of pulling Harper from the water, memories dragged to the surface by the scent of the sea. I think of the first beat of her pulse beneath my fingertips when I brought her back to life. The relief. The purpose that possessed me in that moment and will never let me go. I knew then that I would do anything to keep her heart beating. To keep her safe from a world that seems to want her to suffer.
I’m the one who said we had to stop killing, but I’ll break every rule for her. Even my own.
With a final glance at the rising sun above the black water, I turn and
swim to shore.
