TILL
Nolan
NUMB. I AM NUMB.
My body feels anesthetized as I drive away from Lancaster Manor and return to the Capeside Inn.
I have to get away from that fucking cottage for a little while if I have any hope of figuring this out. I’m not sure I intend to stay away from Harper for very long, or that I even could. It feels like there’s an invisible line that always reels me back to her. But I can’t remain there either, not with our history crashing into us. I need to keep her safe, and I can’t do that if I’m not able to think clearly about the next steps.
When I park, it takes me a long moment before I exit the car. I just sit and stare at the dark water that stretches to the distant horizon, the midafternoon sun reflecting off the waves. But I’m not really seeing it. I’m searching for Harper in my memory. I’m looking for her presence in that night four years ago when she left me behind on the road, though maybe not in the way I first thought. Her hair would have been blond. Maybe it would have stood out among the shadows of the trees that lined the ditches. But no matter how hard I search for her, I can’t find her in my memory. There’s only pain, and grief, and fear. Only a flash of her face in the dashboard lights, a trick of time, a warped past. It was never her.
With a heavy sigh, I leave the vehicle, taking my backpack with me.
The space next to my SUV is empty. There’s a stain on the ground that crosses the painted white line that separates the parking spots. Not oil or coolant, though it might look that way to a passerby. It’s dried blood, and plenty of it. This must be where Harper hit Vinny in the head. Maybe she did
murder him. And whether she killed him last night or not, our connections to murdered or missing people are everywhere in this town, if anyone looks closely enough.
I mark it on my ever-growing mental to-do list to clean that stain up at night when no one is watching, and then I walk toward the inn.
When I enter the lobby, Irene has just finished checking in a couple who are making their way to the staircase with their luggage. They look about my age. The woman wears a sparkling diamond but neither wears a wedding band. They’re smiling at each other when they turn enough to be viewed in profile. I doubt they’re Sleuthseekers—they’re not really giving off the vibe of armchair detectives who have come to seek answers for the deaths of Sam and Vinny. It’s probably too early for amateur investigators to show up anyway. But they will. And maybe it won’t be so easy to tell the newcomers who are harmless from those who are threats when they do.
I was right, we need to get rid of evidence. And I need to start with my own. The trail that leads straight to Harper Starling and the woman who is living in her shroud.
“Mr. Rhodes,” Irene calls. I turn to face her, suddenly realizing that I might have been staring at that couple for a little too long. “Are you all right?”
I do my best to force an easygoing expression. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You sure do keep a tidy room. At first I thought you’d checked out and I’d somehow forgotten.”
“No ma’am, just . . . ” I falter as Irene raises her brows. I suspect she might already know I’m spending a lot of my time with Harper, but I don’t want to encourage more speculation. More whispers. More eyes turning toward Harper with questions. It makes my stomach twist uncomfortably. “I don’t like clutter. Thought I’d take everything to the laundromat anyway.”
Note to self: Spend an abysmal afternoon in the laundromat.
“Must be from your days in the firehouse. My grandson Jamie is a firefighter in Atlanta. I don’t think the boy knew how to make a bed until he ended up there. Now his home is neat as a pin.”
Though I shouldn’t be surprised she knows this detail about my past, which she could have learned from Sam, I don’t love it either. When I smile,
it feels brittle around the edges. “Well, I’d best be on my way—”
“Say,” she interjects, two deep lines etched between her brows. She pushes her glasses up her nose, leaving me feeling assessed. Scrutinized.
“Have you heard the goings-on? About Sam? And his helper?”
“Yes, I did hear something about that, but not many details,” I say as I slide my hands into my pockets and walk closer to the reception desk, keeping my steps slow and even. My heart riots in my chest. I’m afraid to find out if our efforts to stage Sam’s death as an accident were futile. But this is information I desperately need. “Do you know much about it?”
“Not too much, only that there’s an investigation going on at the distillery.”
I nod. The urge to take out my phone is nearly overwhelming. If there’s an investigation at the distillery, Harper needs to know, if she doesn’t already.
But I don’t. I just wait for Irene to continue.
“The distillery is under renovation,” Irene finally says when the silence stretches too long. “At first I thought it was a construction accident, but then I heard that Sheriff Yates is in the hospital with a serious injury. Someone said he was stabbed by one of the men and then shot him. Can you believe it?”
I snuff out the little flame of hope that appears with her words before it can burn too brightly. I’ll admit—after talking to Yates a few times, I’ve had my doubts about Harper’s assertions that he’s inept. But maybe she’s right if he managed to get himself stabbed by a fucking amateur investigator.
Nonetheless, my shock is still genuine when I say, “Really?”
Irene shrugs. “Who knows? Gossip can take a turn in a place like this.”
She tsks and shakes her head, as though she has nothing to do with gossip, only facts. “But it probably won’t be long before we find out what really happened. The truth always has a way of coming out in the end.”
Her words stick to my brain like tar, a grim film over my thoughts. “I’m sure,” I say with a nod. “Hopefully, it will all blow over soon.”
With a tip of my head, I make my way toward my room.
It feels like I’m not able to take a full breath until the door is shut behind me. Even then, my fears constrict my chest, a vise that refuses to let go. And at the center of it all is Harper.
For a long moment, I just stand in the center of the room, thinking about
how every concern, every desire, every emotion has somehow become tied to her. She’s woven into the fabric of me. And yet, though it enrages and intrigues and terrifies me, I don’t even know who she truly is.
When I finally break free of my inertia, I scan the suite and realize I don’t have any alcohol. I could really use a drink to sedate the nest of hornets that has taken up residence in my skull, if just for a moment. As I sit on the edge of the bed, I slide the backpack off and drop it between my feet. Then I just stare down at it, willing myself to look inside.
I haven’t opened my bag since Harper gave it back to me. My heart used to race with anticipation when I’d take out the weapons hidden inside, or when I’d add to my scrapbook of trophies—maps and photos, names and the crimes they’d committed, tanned slices of skin I’d harvested from my victims. But now when I look at my bag, I think of all the things I came here to do to Harper, and I only feel dread.
With a deep breath that does nothing to calm me, I grab the zipper and slowly pull it down. Every tick of the unlocking metal teeth is like a countdown toward an inevitable doom.
When the bag is open, I reach inside and pull out the garrote I used to kill Jake Hornell at Harper’s property. Even then, I’d tried to convince myself it had nothing to do with the fact that he was watching Harper’s intimate, private moment without her knowledge or consent. I told myself it had everything to do with wanting to scare her with his dismembered remains.
The truth is, if Jake hadn’t crossed my path that night, I’m not sure what I would have done. But in that moment, my desire to kill Harper was overcome by jealousy and the need to protect her.
I run my fingers over the thin wire. What if Hornell hadn’t triggered something inside me? Could I have killed her? I might have. It’s what I came for, after all.
I hang my head and press my eyes closed, letting the truth sink into my marrow before I set the garrote on the bed and reach for the next weapon.
A knife. A hammer. Pliers. The cheese slicer that I would have used to take a piece of skin for a trophy. I realized pretty quickly upon arriving in Cape Carnage that Harper didn’t have a Memento mori tattoo like the men who were in the car that hit me, a reminder of the night of the crash that
claimed my brother’s life. I’d figured that had made sense—Harper had faked her death and run to Maine, while they’d remained in Maryland. She had no more points of connection with them. But it wouldn’t have stopped me from taking a piece of her.
I set the cheese slicer to the side with a trembling hand. And then I pull out my scrapbook.
Heavy heartbeats throb in my head as I flip the cover open and stare down at the first page.
Marc Beaumont, front passenger side.
Dylan Jacobs, rear passenger side.
Trevor Fisher, rear driver’s side.
Harper Starling, driver.
I run a finger over Harper’s name, tracing the letters I wrote nearly four years ago. I still remember what I’d felt when I’d carefully laid down each name. Rage. Determination. An unwavering commitment to avenge my brother, Billy, and a future that felt stolen from me.
Unbidden, an image of Harper, bound and at my mercy, rises to choke the air from my lungs. But this isn’t the kind of incapacitation that she craves from me. This is the kind that was meant only to destroy. I imagine the fear in her eyes. The panic in her voice. The sweat on her brow and the pain in her face. I imagine having that cheese slicer in my hand and pressing it to her forearm exactly as I did to Marc, and Dylan, and Trevor. I imagine squeezing her bound wrist with one hand and dragging the sharp edge of the blade through her skin. Her desperate scream pierces my mind.
I slam the book shut and run to the toilet, falling to my knees on the tile as vomit spatters across the white porcelain.
I’m shaking when I finally stand a few long moments later to flush the toilet and head to the sink. I grip the edge of the basin, trying to steady myself. I stare at my reflection. Bloodshot eyes. Pale skin, red blotches fading beneath a misty sheen. I could try to convince myself that maybe I’m getting sick, or I accidentally swallowed seawater when I went diving for the van that revealed Harper’s true identity as Autumn Bower.
But I know it’s none of those things, and I don’t want to lie to myself anymore.
It’s the fact that I could have killed a woman who had nothing to do with Billy’s death or my life-altering injuries. A woman who is so fiercely loyal, so determined to keep her promises, that I know I could have tortured her and she still wouldn’t have told me her name. I could have killed her, and all her secrets and truths would have followed her into the grave I dug for her along the Ballantyne River.
I nearly made the most egregious mistake of my life. And though I didn’t follow through, I’ve still treated her with contempt. I’ve said unforgivable things to her. Uttered accusations and hateful words, threats against her safety. And because I killed Jake Hornell, the gym bro douchebag who watched her from the shadows, people will be asking questions. I’ve put her
in danger.
And I’m not the only one who has.
My eyes narrow as the name Arthur Lancaster blazes through my thoughts like an alarm.
He’s not only a danger to tourists he decides are worthy of elimination.
He’s a danger to himself. And more importantly, a danger to Harper. He’s irrational. Impetuous. And manipulative. Maybe some of these qualities existed long before his diagnosis of Alzheimer’s disease, but they might only become worse and more unpredictable with his condition. And he might just care more about what he can get from Harper than about her safety and well- being. If he really loved her the way she thinks he does, wouldn’t he want her to leave? Wouldn’t he release her from a promise he knows she can’t bear to break?
My grip tightens on the edge of the sink, my knuckles bleaching. Though it’s tempting, I don’t think I can kill him. It would devastate Harper, and I can’t live knowing that I’m the one who delivered that blow, even if I could guarantee she’d never know it was me. But I need to get her away from him.
And I need to ensure he doesn’t kill again, creating more secrets for us to bury.
How? I have no fucking idea. But I’ll fucking figure it out.
With a determined nod at my reflection, I clean myself up and return to
the bed, pulling out my phone as I sit. There’s a recent text from Harper that must have come through while I had my head in the toilet.
The cops are at the distillery.
The three dots of her next message in progress appear. They stop. They start again and stop a final time. When they don’t reappear, I call her.
“Hi,” she says on the second ring. I hear so much emotion beneath those two letters that land softly in my ear.
“Hi.” I blow out a long breath as tension seems to crackle through the line.
“I heard about the distillery from Irene. Rumor has it that Yates was injured
in a stabbing there.”
“What? How? By whom?”
“My guess is that it has something to do with Vinny, but I don’t know much aside from the fact that Yates shot the man who attacked him. I didn’t really want to pry for more information, just in case it seemed suspicious.”
Another silent moment stretches between us, and I can imagine Harper chewing on her lip as she thinks through all the scenarios that might have occurred at the distillery. “Are you okay?” I ask.
It takes her a beat to answer. “Yeah. I think so. You . . . ?”
I look over at my scrapbook lying open next to me on the bed, turned to a fresh page. The one I would have used for Harper. I close my eyes. “No,” I
admit. “I’m worried about you.”
“You are?”
“Of course.”
“I thought you were pissed off at me.”
“Maybe a little,” I say, running a hand through my hair to grip the back of my neck. “But I can be pissed off at you and still worry about you at the same time. And I can be even more pissed at myself, it seems.”
Harper’s breath of a laugh threads through the line. “Yeah. Me too, I guess.” Silence stretches for a long moment. Apologies and secrets and revelations seem to hang in the blank space between us, but none of those words feel ready to bear fruit. “Lukas is freaking out about the distillery. He’s on his way to the manor house. I’m going to meet him there—I’m sure he’ll have questions about the state of Arthur’s face unless I can convince the old
man to go for a nap before he arrives. But I’ll keep you posted, if you want.”
I nod, even though she can’t see it. “Yeah, that would be—”
“Gotta go. Talk to you later,” Harper says, and just as I’m taking a breath to say her name, she hangs up.
I let out a long sigh, staring down at my phone.
Then I tear out every page of the scrapbook until only blank sheets are left. I burn them in the bathtub, watching as memories die in flames.
When the ash is washed away, I slide what remains of the book into my backpack with the weapons and leave the hotel room.
I walk past the sound of Irene’s gentle snore from her office next to the reception desk, thinking through everything I’m going to do today. I’ll go back to the cottage. I’ll help Harper with Lukas and Arthur. We’ll start talking through this mess that surrounds us. Figure out how to tie off our loose ends. Maybe then I’ll find a way to convince her to come to Tennessee with me, at least for a little while. Determination drives me through the lobby doors and out into the sun. But my steps falter when I see the sheriff’s pickup parked next to my SUV.
The urge to turn back into the hotel nearly overtakes me, but the driver’s door opens and Sheriff Yates steps out. Just what I need. He turns to give me a bright smile as he slides his aviators off. I force myself to cross the parking lot, the bag of weapons growing heavier with every step I take until I come to a stop in front of him.
“Mr. Rhodes,” Sheriff Yates says. He closes the door of his truck, his cowboy boots scraping across the white line that’s smeared with blood. His arm is strapped against his body in a sling. “Just the man I’m looking for.”
My heart twists against my ribs. “Really?”
“Yes indeed, son.” His boots scuff the stain as he turns to face me fully.
Though I don’t look down at the mark he stands on, it still snags his gaze and he glances down, shifting his feet to get a better look at the droplets and streaks. When he looks up, a smile kicks up one corner of his lips. I have a little moment of relief that he might be as incompetent as Harper claims, but that quickly evaporates when he says, “I have a question or two for you.”
The urge to attack him nearly overwhelms me. A thousand thoughts scatter through the confines of my skull. I could lunge for him. He’s got an
inch or two on me. Despite being in his late fifties, he clearly stays in shape.
But I could use his injury to my advantage. Shoot him with his own gun.
Could I get away with it? Could I make it long enough to grab Harper and force her to come with me? Could she disappear into a new life a second time? Or do I just take all the blame to keep her safe? Would that even work?
Yates squares his shoulders, his eyes darkening as though he can see right into my mind. “Cape Carnage is a pretty small place, if you hadn’t noticed.
I’m sure you already heard I took a knife to the shoulder last night. Word gets around quickly in a town like this, especially when Irene is the source.”
I nod once.
“Thought so,” he says with a good-natured shake of his head. “You’re a Search and Rescue specialist, aren’t you?”
I clear my throat when my heart stutters in my chest. “Yes, sir.”
“When are you due to head back home to Tennessee?”
“Fifteenth of July, Sheriff.”
He scratches his stubble with his good hand and looks out across the sea.
Nodding, he draws out the moment, my pulse surging in my ears with every second that passes. “Well, I could use some help, if you’re up to the task.”
“I . . . I’m sorry . . . ?”
“We don’t really have the crew for something like this. An extra hand to
help out would be appreciated.”
“Something like . . . what?”
“A man was just reported missing, and his wife is raising all hell about it.
Seeing as we also have an ongoing homicide investigation at the distillery, we’re about to be a magnet for the press. We have to get this shit tied up quickly. I need someone who can organize a search. Someone experienced.”
He pats his injured arm and gives me a weary, half-hearted smile. “I’m not as young as I used to be. This wound won’t heal so fast—I’ll be in this dang sling for another two weeks, at least.”
My mouth opens. Closes. It opens again, but no sound comes out.
Yates gives me a disheartened smile. “Not really the enthusiastic response I was hoping for,” he says as he claps a hand on my shoulder, “but I understand. This is your vacation, and it’s a big ask. I thought maybe you might want to do it for Harper’s sake.”
That spike of fear returns, driving right through my ribs. “Sir?”
“I thought you’d want to stick around for her. I heard you’ve been spending a lot of time at her place. It’s Cape Carnage—you can’t do much
around here without people talking.”
“I’ve gathered.”
He pats my shoulder. “No worries, son. I’m sure I’ll figure it out. Maybe I’ll see you around at Harper’s cottage, I should probably check in with her.
Between Arthur’s fall and that terrible crash with the soapbox car, she’s had a lot to deal with lately. And Cape Carnage is a ‘community that cares.’”
The sheriff taps on his badge, where Caritas Communitatis is engraved into the center ring, and then he starts to move past me, headed toward the inn. He only takes two steps before the words are tumbling out of my mouth like they’re chasing after him. “Wait, I can help.” Yates pivots a slow turn on his heel and faces me, his brows raised in an unvoiced question. “I’m sorry, I was just a little surprised you’d ask. But I’m happy to lend a hand. Of course.”
For a moment, Yates is expressionless. An unreadable, blank mask watches me back. And then, his features seem to bloom, their harsh angles and edges softening. “Really?” he asks, and I nod. “That would be a big help, son.”
I plaster on a smile, one I hope straddles the line of helpful and heartfelt.
“Sure. Whatever I can do, just sign me up.”
“Great, then hop in the truck.” Yates slides his sunglasses on and pivots
toward his driver’s side door.
“Now . . . ?”
“No time like the present, Mr. Rhodes. We’ve got a missing man to find.”
Sweat itches at my spine. The bag of weapons burns at my back. I shrug off one strap and then the next as I head to the passenger side and step up into the truck, laying the bag at my feet.
A country song I don’t recognize blares to life when Sheriff Yates keys the engine.
“Oh, hot damn. I nearly forgot,” Yates says as he twists the dial to turn the music down. He presses a button on the remote speaker microphone strapped on his injured shoulder. “Dispatch, this is Sheriff Yates, over.”
A moment later, a woman’s voice crackles through the slats of the speaker. “This is dispatch, over.”
“Send Deputy Collins and a crew over to the Capeside Inn with a field kit.
Looks like there’s blood in the parking lot.”
“Ten-four.”
With a fleeting grin toward me, Yates turns the music up and throws the truck in reverse.
