GERMINATE
Nolan
IT ISN’T UNTIL I PARK my rental in front of the Cape Carnage Sheriff’s Office that true panic sets in.
Any reasonable person would probably get the fuck out of town and try to escape to a remote island halfway across the world, never to be heard from again. Apparently, that’s not me, because the chorus of my inner monologue doesn’t seem to give a shit about self-preservation.
What if Yates has uncovered evidence about Harper’s crimes?
What if he pieced together Arthur’s whereabouts when he killed Evanston?
What if someone heard McMillan’s muffled screams? Or reported the strangely frequent use of a woodchipper to the police?
What if the Sleuthseekers have tracked down her true identity and handed it over to authorities?
What if we missed something in Sam and Vinny’s possession that would lead Yates back to Harper?
The answers to those questions and their repercussions cycle through my mind as I enter the air-conditioned station.
“Mr. Rhodes?” the officer at the reception says as I stop in front of his desk. I try not to look like a guilty man when I nod. “Sheriff Yates’ll be right with you. He’s just finishing up with someone in his office. You can take a seat.”
Well, fuck. That doesn’t give me any reassurance at all that this is just a friendly little visit.
The officer gestures toward the brown plastic chairs along the windows at
the front of the lobby, and I mumble my thanks before taking a seat. The muffled sound of Yates’s authoritative yet friendly voice drifts out from behind his closed office door, and another spike of fear floods my veins with adrenaline.
I hang my head and stare at my laced fingers, my arms braced against my legs.
How the fuck did I wind up here? The first time I came to this office, I could have berated myself for thinking with my dick. But this time I know the truth: It’s not my dick that’s motivating my reckless actions. It’s my heart. And that’s fucking worse. There’s no stopping it, no convincing it to see reason. And as I watch the door to Sheriff Yates’s office open and a woman with puffy eyes and a tissue walk out before him, I know now is when I need my rational thoughts the most.
“Ah, Rhodes,” Sheriff Yates says as the woman’s reddened eyes track to mine. I know she’s putting my face to a name she already knew. “Thanks for coming. Head on into my office and I’ll be right with you, son.”
“Sure thing, sir,” I say, nodding to the woman as I pass by. My gesture isn’t returned, her gaze vacant with grief.
“I really appreciate you coming in, Emma. I know this is a difficult time, losing your friend Charlie that way, and I can assure you we’ll be here to answer any questions you have,” Yates says. I glance over my shoulder to watch as he passes her a business card. “This is my direct line. Feel free to give me a shout whenever you need.”
“Thank you,” she replies, her voice weak.
I linger at Yates’s office door and watch her walk away, the sheriff only turning to face me once she’s gone. He lets out a low whistle. “Jeez, what a day. And it’s not even noon.” Yates lays his hand on my back and nods toward his desk. “Come on in. Let’s have a chat.”
I swallow another burst of fear and focus on my destination, having a seat in the same chair I sat in the first time I came to the station. The seat is still warm from the woman who just left. Yates sits across from me, patting his arm in the sling. “I sure am tired of having to type out these reports with one hand, I can tell you that much.”
I give him a weak smile. What an odd thing to say when people are dying,
I want to comment, but I don’t. “I’m sure” is all I can manage.
“On the bright side, we’re wrapping up the homicide investigation on Mr.
Porter and Mr. Meschino,” Yates says as he focuses on his computer screen.
“The lab came back confirming it was Meschino’s blood in the parking lot of the inn. Looks like their fight started there and ended at the distillery.” His eyes flick to mine as he sighs deeply. “At least the press might calm down a little soon. They’ll get bored of the search efforts soon enough.”
I nod, but I can’t say I feel much more comfortable sitting across from him now than I did a few moments ago. “That would be good.”
“Got the lab reports back on that evidence we found in Mr. Porter’s car, too,” Yates says, his focus on his computer screen as he clicks the mouse a few times. The constant alarm of Harper’s name blares louder in my mind as Yates skims over the details before him. “Palo santo in the incense holder. A fragment of a blond hair, though it wasn’t Sam’s and there’s no match in Maine state records. Any of that sound familiar to you, given you had some
proximity to Mr. Porter?”
“No, sir.”
Yates sighs. “Didn’t think so.” When I tilt my head, trying to work out if it’s a veiled barb, he gives me a wan smile. “Porter seemed to keep the details of what he was up to close to his chest. Unfortunately.”
“Yes—I did ask him a few questions about the documentary he was working on, but he seemed reluctant to divulge much. Something about a famous serial killer. La Plude . . . La Pleutre . . . La something . . . ”
A flash of something sinister seems to brighten in Yates’s chameleon eyes before it disappears beneath a hard stare. “La Plume. A prolific and talented serial killer whose last known murder was right here in Cape Carnage, nearly thirty years ago. And then he simply vanished. It’s been eating up the likes of the Sleuthseekers ever since.” His attention shifts back to his computer screen as he clicks his mouse. “Well, whatever this evidence is from Mr. Porter’s car, I’m not sure how it connects to a cold case. Yet.”
Yates’s last word lingers like an ominous echo in the room as he skims through a few more files. It could be Harper’s hair. It could be Adam’s. It could be something Yates links to the past she’s tried so hard to escape, if he escalates this to a federal level. And his stoic expression gives me no
indication of what he might be planning to do, or if my fears are warranted.
“So, anyway,” Yates says, breaking through my swirl of panic as he leans back into his chair. “How’s the search going?”
I blow out a long breath, a thread of relief worming its way into my veins with the change of topic and Yates’s expression—suddenly he seems tired of discussing Sam Porter. “I can’t say it’s straightforward. With several missing people and so many potential locations to search, there are a lot of moving parts.” Yates nods, as though he expected as much. “But the volunteers are great. They’re very dedicated—I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before something turns up,” I say.
It should only be a day or two at most until someone finds McMillan’s shirt along the rocks, now that I have the search parties moving in that direction.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Yates says. “Everything okay at the Capeside Inn?”
I shrug. “I guess so, why?”
“Daryl Winkle said he saw you driving away from the inn shortly before we got the call about a body in the sea. Said you were soaking wet.”
Fucking Winkle.
I feel like I’ve just been hit with a sledgehammer. Winkle couldn’t have seen me take Charlie over the cliff or I’d already be in handcuffs, surely. But it must have been close, and I internally berate myself for my impulsivity, the earlier flood of peace from the kill long gone.
I don’t even know what that asshole Winkle looks like. But I need to find out, so I can punch him in the fucking face. “Well, my hair would have been,” I reply, my short-lived and naive sense of relief evaporating as I reach for a plausible explanation. “I went back to the inn to take a shower so I didn’t wake Harper up. Her water heater makes a god-awful noise.”
I make a mental note to order a completely unnecessary water heater for Harper to cover my tracks.
“That’s strange,” Yates says, flipping open a manila folder and drawing a note from within. He keeps the edge of the paper raised so I can’t read it from the other side of the desk. “Irene said she didn’t see you in the hotel this morning.”
A mist of sweat itches at the back of my neck, and I resist the urge to wipe
it away. “I didn’t see her either, but I heard her in the kitchen. She works pretty hard back there.”
Yates nods, turning the note over before scanning through some of the other papers. “That she most certainly does.” His eyes lift to mine and stick like burs. “Did you see anyone else this morning? Any of the other guests, perhaps?”
Yates’s scrutiny seems too cutting for someone supposedly weary of the responsibilities of his job, so I control every microexpression I have: press my lips together, furrow my brows just a little, turn my gaze upward and to the left, toward the speckled panels of the ceiling. “Not that I recall. It was pretty early, and I was in and out fairly quickly. I heard some voices coming from the room next to mine, but not loudly enough to make out specific conversations.” I return my gaze to Yates and lift one shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
“So you didn’t see anyone standing at the cliff edge? Or hear anything from the water? A splash? A scream, maybe?”
It’s not that moment of plummeting over the edge of the cliff with some unknown guy in my grip that I think of. It’s Harper. My heart thunders as though I’m watching it happen all over again. She disappears over the edge.
She’s screaming my name. The whoosh in my stomach as I dive after her.
And then the crushing silence when I surface alone.
“No, sir,” I say, blinking away the memory that still haunts my nightmares nearly every night. “Not a thing.”
Yates takes in a deep sigh, letting it out slowly. “Well . . . ” He shifts the papers back into the folder, his eyes returning to me as he closes it. “It seems like nobody else heard anything either. Poor Mr. Abbott must have gotten too close to the edge and slipped. Wouldn’t be surprised if he was just trying to get a photo and fell—young folks these days are always more concerned about snapping the perfect picture for their social media accounts than their safety.”
“Yeah, wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen that happen on the job.”
Actually, it would. That’s a total lie.
“Speaking of such things, you said your phone is damaged? How’d that happen?”
I give him one of those “it’s been a shitty day” smiles in the hopes that
he’ll commiserate, seeing as how he’s in a similar boat. “Just one of those unfortunate accidents. Dropped it when I was leaving the cottage.”
Yates’s head tilts. He doesn’t look like he’s in a commiserating mood.
“Even with that fancy case you had? I thought they were supposed to be good for drops.”
“They are,” I say, forcing my brows from drawing together at the astuteness of his observation. “Just not when you drop them face-first on uneven stone, I guess.”
“Fair point.” Yates rocks in his chair a few times, an unsettling silence descending between us. But if it’s bait, I won’t take it. I let the quiet moment stretch on until he slaps his hand down hard on the desk and grins. “Well, if anything changes and you remember hearing or seeing something this morning, be sure to let me know, will you?”
“Of course, sir.”
Yates rises from his chair and I mirror his motion. “The man who went over the cliff and the woman who just left, they’re both part of the same amateur investigator group that Sam Porter and Vinny Meschino were in.
They volunteered to help with the search before the accident happened this morning. While I’m not keen on these types coming to town and stirring up trouble, I figured they’d at least be occupied doing something useful if they joined your search. These types don’t accept facts easily, even when they’re irrefutable. I gave Emma the heads up just now before I formally announce the end of the homicide investigation tomorrow, and I suspect I’ll need your help to keep them busy and out of my hair.”
I nod, forcing a smile. “Sure thing.”
Yates puts his hand on my shoulder in that fatherly way he loves to do, always on the deep puncture wound that’s still healing from McMillan’s attempt to save himself. “While young Emma is definitely not feeling up to trudging through the woods in search of missing people, there’s another man from their trio who’s still keen to lend a hand. Name’s Tylor. He’ll be heading to the command center this afternoon to meet with you.”
“So he’s just going to leave his friend on her own?” I ask, hoping Yates will consider calling this Tylor guy to talk him out of it. “She was clearly upset, which is understandable given the circumstances. Do you think that’s
wise?”
“We can’t judge the things people do to manage their grief, son,” he says, tightening his grip on my shoulder. “Some people need silence and solitude, like Emma. Tylor might need distraction.”
He’s right, of course. Harper and I are living proof that there’s no singular method for managing grief. But it sounds so fucking disingenuous falling from his lips, like he lifted it from a self-help book, and it’s what he thinks he should say, but not at all what he actually feels.
Yates lets go of my shoulder and grins when I nod, then gestures toward the door. “This Tylor fella seems harmless. These sleuth types like to roar behind a keyboard about all the things they think they know, but when you put ’em into the real world of an investigation or a search, they’re as helpless as kittens.”
I’m not sure I agree with that analogy, particularly not after my encounters with Sam, but I give Yates an acquiescent smile anyway before leading the way to the office door.
“Hey,” Yates says behind me, “I keep meaning to ask how you got that nasty scar on the back of your neck. Must’ve been quite the story.”
My hand reflexively lands on the ridge of scar tissue, as though I can hide it from view. If Yates digs into what happened in Maryland four years ago, with his access and connections, he could unearth the whole story. About me.
Billy. The woman who hit us. The real Harper Starling.
“Mountain biking accident,” I lie, shooting only a brief glance to Yates over my shoulder. All my focus returns to the exit ahead, and on trying not to run through it. The only thing that keeps my pace steady is Harper. Every movement I make, every untruth that glides across my tongue, they’re not for me anymore. They’re for her. “Just dumb kid shit, doing tricks when I shouldn’t have been. Looks worse than it was.”
Yates snaps his fingers. “Oh, right. Porter mentioned something about you mountain biking when I paid him a little visit.”
My step hitches. I’ve just caught myself in a domino of lies. I’m not sure if Sam ever followed up with Wallie’s Watersports about the mountain bike I claimed to have rented there when he scrutinized the dark bruise on my arm in the Capeside Inn. And I don’t know what else he could have told Yates if
he did.
I open my mouth—to say what, I don’t know. But Yates beats me to it.
“Anyway, good luck with the rest of the search today, son. I’ll check in with you later.”
I turn. He’s got that same fatherly smile that he wears so often it has laid subtle lines down on his skin, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He extends a hand, and I take it. “Thanks for stopping by,” he says. “And say hi to Harper for me. I do worry about her with Arthur sometimes—how much responsibility she takes on given his diagnosis. And his past.”
Yates shakes his head and lets go of my hand. My brow furrows. A spike of a new kind of fear drives through my heart. “What do you mean?” I ask.
“You don’t actually think he’s La Plume like all these amateur sleuths believe, do you?”
The sheriff chuckles, shaking his head. “No, no. I don’t think he’s La Plume.” Yates takes a step closer. Leans in a little. There’s a spark in his eyes that he can’t hide, the flash of a hunter scenting distant prey. My earlier fears claw at me again, that this man might be more than he appears. And my fears only compound when he says, “But the death of his wife, on the other hand.
Well, that was something I could just never prove.”
A fresh round of questions cyclone through my mind. What did Arthur do? And does Harper know? I can’t see how she wouldn’t—Arthur knows her most fundamental secrets, so why wouldn’t she know his? And if she
does, why hasn’t she told me?
My fist tenses at my side “A story for another day, kid,” Yates says. There’s a strange gleam of triumph in his eyes before he claps me on the arm. “Nothing to worry about, just a theory best left in the past. And Harper knows how to look after herself.
Have a great day out there.”
Yates heads back to his office. And with a counterfeit smile that he doesn’t see, I turn and stride through the doors and into the sun.
He’s right. Maybe it’s best left in the past.
But in Cape Carnage, nothing stays buried for long.
