SOWN
Harper
“YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO LIKE PEANUTS.”
“Cookie.”
“How did you get so picky?”
“Nom nom. Good enough for me.”
“Clearly, they are not.” I toss the peanuts on the ground, rolling my eyes as I slip a hand into the front pocket of my overalls to withdraw a piece of jerky for Morpheus as he judges me from the peak of his bird feeder. “I know you’re going to eat those peanuts as soon as my back is turned, you feathery little con artist.”
I lay the jerky on the platform, along with a few more peanuts, which I scatter across the feeder and the lawn. My hope is it will keep him occupied while the final round of judging takes place for the annual gardening competition. Normally, Morpheus stays away from groups of people he doesn’t know or trust. But I still wouldn’t put it past him to show up with a song and dance about murder while Mayor Patel makes her final decision on this year’s winner.
I leave the bird to his treats and head out the back gate, my phone buzzing in my hand with a message from Nolan as I make my way toward the main garden.
Break a leg today! Preferably someone else’s.
How about Sarah Winkle’s?
Sure. Maybe Daryl’s too. Gotta make sure you have enough legs.
A faint smile crosses my lips, but it’s quickly erased by a pang of nerves as I see Arthur descending from the low steps that lead to the entrance of the manor house. In the last two days since the dance, Nolan has been knee-deep in the official windup of the search, while Arthur and I have worked our asses off on the garden. I’ve known for a while that it might be the last time we enter this competition together, and I wanted to make it extra special for him.
But now, seeing him dressed to the nines, it feels that much more real. He’s wearing one of his immaculate three-piece suits, tweed this time, and a pair of polished shoes that I’m willing to bet are Stefano Riccis.
“You’re looking very dapper today,” I say, forcing brightness into my voice as I meet him at the top of the garden near the house. “You’re going for the aristocratic gardener look today, I see. ‘I might handle manure, but I do it in style.’”
“Indeed,” he says, adjusting his tie. “It’s the tenth annual competition. I need to celebrate appropriately.” At first I think he might comment on my overalls and dirty work boots, but he doesn’t. Instead, he hands me a small bag held closed with a little black bow. “I know today isn’t the kind of day one celebrates,” he says, his gaze lowering to the gift in my hand. “But I wanted you to have something for yourself.”
I swallow, my eyes stinging. He remembered.
August twenty-fifth. Today is the anniversary of the day I escaped Harvey Mead’s house. The day that Adam died.
I unravel the bow from the bag and pull the contents free.
It’s a pair of bespoke gardening gloves, in rich purple leather, bright green piping tracing the stitches along the fingers and the edge of the hand. There are monogrammed fasteners at the wrist, my initials engraved in the gold.
And resting in one of the gloves is a small card in Arthur’s handwriting:
One day of your life need not define you. Your future is what you grow from its ash.
“Thank you, Arthur,” I say, holding my gift to my heart. “That means a lot.”
“Well . . . ” He stabs his cane into the lawn and shuffles his feet. Clears his
throat. “You’re welcome. Don’t lose them.”
A smile lifts the corners of my lips. “I won’t.”
“Did Lukas send you a message?”
“For what?”
Arthur’s resting bitch face turns a little more bitchy. “For today, Harper.”
“Umm, no. He didn’t. Was he supposed to?”
“Yes. You’re family.” Arthur grumbles something unintelligible and turns toward the garden, beckoning me to follow. “Send him a text for me, would you?”
A tiny burst of devious glee floods my veins as I stuff my gift into the front pocket of my overalls. I pull out my phone and start a new message to Lukas.
Get ready, dickhead. The judgy bus is about to run you over.
“What would you like it to say?” I ask as I trail after Arthur. My phone buzzes in my hand, but I don’t look down, letting Lukas sweat it out for a minute.
“Tell him the septic alarm has started going off again. I need him to fix it.”
My grin is electric as I open up my chat with Lukas.
What the fuck . . . ? What for?!
Oh my god. The reminder literally just came up on my phone. Oh shit, I’m sorry, Harper!
You’re a shit pseudo brother. Literally. You’re on septic alarm duty.
Fuuuuuck. Deserved. But fuck.
I hate you. But I still love you. And I’m so happy you’re here.
My smile that was once devious turns a little brighter.
“Harper,” Arthur barks. When I look up from my device, he’s standing on one of the decorative granite boulders that frames the garden, surveying the landscape with what looks like a small telescope. “They’re at the Winkles’ house.”
“Get down from there, what the hell?” I say, hopping up next to him and taking hold of his elbow. “Is that a spyglass?”
“Yes. It’s practical and stylish.”
“Hand it over.”
I pull the spyglass from Arthur’s hand and bring it to my eye, scanning the town below us. I spot the Winkles’ property a few blocks away where the road sweeps in a curve toward downtown. There’s a small crowd standing at the edge of their garden. I can make out the towering physique of Sheriff Yates and Maxine next to him, her long red hair trailing down her back like a lick of flame. Mayor Patel trails through the garden, examining some of the blooms that Sarah Winkle points out as a few of the other town council members flank her.
“We’d better get to the gate,” I say, passing the antiquated device back to Arthur and tugging on his elbow. “Come on, let’s get down from here.”
He gives the landscape a final pass. “When did you get so bossy, Poppy?”
I jolt as though struck. “I . . . ” My voice trails away on the wind. But Arthur doesn’t notice, he just keeps his eye on the town. It’s not the first time he’s confused me for Poppy, of course. I know it won’t be the last. But the lapse still strikes my heart with the power of an arrow. “I’m sorry, I just don’t want to be late to greet the mayor.” I step down from the stone, offering Arthur my hand, forcing a smile as though the air wasn’t just punched from my lungs. “Shall we?”
“Yes, yes,” he grumbles, and collapses the spyglass to slide it into the inside pocket of his jacket. A momentary flash of confusion passes across his weathered features before he takes my hand. “We need to crush that miserable swamp banshee.”
“‘Swamp banshee’? That’s a new one. I like it.” I loop Arthur’s arm through mine, and we make our way to the spotless driveway and the open gate in the stone wall. “Where did you come up with it?”
Arthur gives me a derisive snort. “It’s called imagination, Harper.”
We wait in front of the Lancaster estate in silence for the judges to arrive.
The manor always feels untouched by the rest of the town, observing Cape Carnage in secret. We just get whispers of the town we overlook. The distant sound of a dog barking with the precision of a percussive beat. The hiss of air
brakes from the heavy trucks that bring machinery to the Ballantyne River for construction of the new hotel. And eventually, the sound of three vehicles approaching, then rolling to a stop next to the gate.
A torrent of nerves swirls in my stomach as Arthur adjusts his tie and practices his best, most unthreatening smile while the judging team exits the vehicles. The first to join us are Mayor Patel and two other members of the town council, then the president and treasurer of the gardening club. Finally, Sheriff Yates and Maxine draw to a halt behind the mayor.
“Welcome, Mayor Patel,” Arthur says, shuffling closer with a hand extended. “Thank you for coming.”
“My pleasure.” She shakes his offered hand. “And please, call me Jaya.
We’ve known each other long enough that we should be on a first-name basis, don’t you think?”
Arthur gives a happy grumble, straightening his jacket before he welcomes the rest of the judging committee and then returns to the mayor to offer her an arm. I try not to grin too widely at his little burst of charm.
“Please allow me to escort you through the Lancaster estate garden, Jaya. I believe you’ll agree, this is our most impressive season yet.”
I trail after them, allowing the council and gardening club representatives to pass ahead of me before I fall in line with Maxine and Sheriff Yates.
“It’s great to see you again,” I say to Max, receiving a genuine smile in reply, though I detect a hint of nerves beneath it.
“Likewise. I’ve wanted to reach out and see if you wanted to grab a coffee sometime, but the hotel project has really been a handful.” She darts a sheepish smile in my direction, a blush rising on her cheeks. “I feel like all I’ve been doing is working.”
“I agree,” Yates says, laying a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “You should take a break. Maybe spend some time with Harper here.”
“Yeah, I should have more free time now that the competition will be over,” I say, gesturing toward the elaborate garden that stretches before us.
“Next week would be good if you have time for coffee at the Bean.”
The tension in Max’s smile seems to ease a little. “That’d be great.”
“And we still need to find a date for that barbecue, Harper,” Yates says.
“Maybe next weekend? Looks like we’ll have a few nasty days with
tomorrow’s big storm rolling in, but Saturday’s supposed to be pretty good for weather. We should make the best of it while we can.”
I’d hoped the sheriff had forgotten about that, especially now that we’re making our own plans, but clearly not. “Yeah. I’m free.”
“Great. Bring Rhodes with you. I hear he’s decided to stick around in Cape Carnage . . . ?”
“Yeah,” I reply. Warmth spreads through my chest and down my shoulders, sticking to my bones. “He has.”
“Well that’s just great. We’ll see you Saturday then. Five o’clock. Don’t worry about bringing anything, we’ll have plenty.” Yates tips his hat to me, gives a pat to Max’s shoulder, and then strides ahead to catch up with the mayor.
“Sorry about that. I’m sure hanging out with the town sheriff is not everybody’s gig. I think he just wants to help me settle in,” Max says, leaning a little closer. “Dad’s a bit overbearing. He likes to”—she hunches a little, twiddling her fingers like she’s manipulating a phantom puppet —“orchestrate things. You know?”
I chuckle, vaguely registering the sound of a barking dog that’s drawing nearer. “Yeah, I get it. He seems like a good dad.”
“He is,” Max says, her brows furrowing. “I guess I forgot how much he likes things ‘just so.’”
“I hear that whiskey is good for venting about overbearing family members. Maybe we could drop in on Lukas and do a tasting at the Lancaster Distillery sometime.”
Max’s gaze slides to mine in a crystalline side-eye. “Are you trying to
wingman me?”
I snort a laugh. “Is it working?”
Max never gets a chance to answer.
The barking suddenly grows louder and more insistent, as though it had been buffered by the walls that surround our property and now there’s no barrier. Max and I turn to see Mrs. Evanston standing at the gate. Queenie bounces at the end of her leash, the pink harness straining against her chest.
Mrs. Evanston looks like she’s aged ten years. Her hair is unbrushed, her shirt half tucked in, her skin bare of makeup. And her eyes, red-rimmed and
hollow, are laser-focused on Mayor Patel.
“Mayor,” she calls out above the metronomic bark of her insistent dog.
She starts heading up the driveway toward the judges, who are standing next to the topiary of the fox. “Mayor, I need to speak with you.”
“Mrs. Evanston—”
“You need to reopen the search for my husband.” Mrs. Evanston continues past us, the dog leaping toward me before making a beeline for the rose bushes as though she can’t wait to shit on the garden. Mrs. Evanston drags her along, and the dog refocuses on the group ahead. “Peter is still out there somewhere.”
Mayor Patel is the picture of calm as she turns toward the woman, who seems to be unraveling with every step she takes. Sheriff Yates edges in front of the mayor, but Patel stops him with a gentle hand. “I understand your concern, Mrs. Evanston,” the mayor says. “And I sympathize with what you’re going through. When we spoke before the press announcement, I mentioned we will still maintain a small crew to continue searching in priority areas. However, this isn’t the time and place—”
“But I need to speak with you urgently.”
The group descends into a fraught conversation, with Yates trying to gently escort Mrs. Evanston back down the driveway. There are hushed whispers from the town council and gardening club representatives, pleas from the distraught woman, and firm yet kind assurances from the mayor, all set to the beat of the dog’s metronomic bark.
But it’s another voice that cuts through the rising desperation.
“Beastly purse demon,” Arthur grumbles, glaring down at the little dog.
“That brutish boor let it defecate among my prized roses and didn’t pick it up.
Inscrutable flea of man.”
I’m sure that every drop of blood evaporates from my body the instant those words leave Arthur’s lips. Everything goes quiet. Even the dog goes silent. My limbs solidify. It’s Max’s whispered “no” that snaps the infinite moment of dread.
I stride toward the group with Max at my side, a swell of adrenaline kicking my heart into a higher gear. But it’s too late. Mrs. Evanston is turning toward Arthur, her jaw slack, her grip loosening on the leash. Queenie pulls
away from her and starts running around the group, barking at each person,
though no one seems to notice.
“What did you say?”
“That the dog is a demon.”
“About my husband.”
“That he was an inscrutable flea.”
Mrs. Evanston’s eyes widen, her skin losing color, her expression briefly clearing before it collapses in slow motion. “What do you mean ‘was’?”
“Arthur, maybe it’s time to sit down somewhere quiet,” I say, jogging the rest of the distance to take his elbow in a firm grip. I give him a warning squeeze. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Evanston, but Arthur gets confused sometimes—”
Arthur twists his arm out of my grasp, shooting me a vicious glare. “I’m not confused.”
“—And the pressure of the gardening competition is a lot for him right now.”
“What does he mean ‘was’?” Mrs. Evanston takes a step closer. Yates wedges himself in her path with his hand outstretched to keep her back.
“What happened to my husband? Do you know something?”
“I know he had no respect for this town.”
“What do you mean ‘had’?” A distraught sob breaks free of the knot that’s surely binding Mrs. Evanston’s throat in pain. Tears crest over her lashes.
“Do you know what happened to Peter? Did you do something to him?”
I manage to recapture Arthur’s arm, but I struggle to keep hold of it without hurting him as he twists in my grip. Mrs. Evanston repeats her questions as I hiss pleas to settle down into Arthur’s ear. The dog circles our feet, as though zeroing in on the culprit of all his owner’s sorrows. My heart rages against my sternum.
“Mr. Lancaster is eighty-eight years old and has a medical condition,”
Maxine says, stepping between us as I force Arthur back a step. “He rarely leaves the house. I’m sure he doesn’t know what happened to your husband.”
Mrs. Evanston’s distress morphs into fury. She points to Arthur with a shaking finger, pushing forward against Sheriff Yates. “He knows something, Sheriff. You need to search this property.”
Yates tries to calm the woman down as Queenie rushes between me and
Arthur. Her leash tangles around my ankles, and I stumble a few awkward steps before kicking my leg free. The dog seizes her freedom, racing for the bed of hydrangeas and foxgloves next to the topiary. I glance back at what she’s running for. Something shiny catches my attention before my focus
returns to Arthur.
But then I realize what I just saw.
My head whips around. My gaze lands on a narrow silver plate sticking straight up from the black mulch, its presence obvious from the right angle against the backdrop of foliage. There are pairs of holes down its length. I know that some are filled with screws. That those screws attach to bone.
Bryce Mahoney’s bone. The one that should be in my freezer. The bone that only one other person knew was there.
Nolan Rhodes.
I drop Arthur’s arm and rush toward the dog just as she pulls the bone from the soil. She starts running away with her prize, but I catch her leash beneath my boot and swoop her off the ground with my back turned to the group of arguing people behind me.
“You fucking little shit,” I hiss, and she snarls at me in reply. I manage to pry the bone from her tiny jaws and stuff it behind my gloves in the front pocket of my overalls. I trade her for a piece of jerky in the hopes that it will shut her up. “Rat me out and I swear to god I’ll let Morpheus poke out your eyes.”
She calms a little with a second piece of jerky, and I do my best to swallow down surge after surge of panic as I pivot and return to the group.
“You need to bring him in for questioning,” Mrs. Evanston rages, her ire directed at Yates now. “He knows something about my husband.”
“Leave him alone.” I push past Yates, shoving the dog into the woman’s arms.
“Poppy, get away from that woman, she’s causing a scene.”
I don’t turn around, though Arthur tugs on my wrist. “I’m not Poppy,” I say, low enough that Arthur can’t make out my words. But Mrs. Evanston can. “Poppy has been dead for thirty years.”
It takes harnessing every scrap of my thinning restraint not to lunge for Mrs. Evanston’s throat, just to have someone to lash out at. Some way of
getting this fury out of my veins. Anger at her for ruining what could be Arthur’s last run at the gardening competition. For forcing him dangerously close to unearthing his secrets. Anger at Arthur for succumbing to the sharp edges of his abrasive personality. Rage at this fucking disease. The way it mercilessly dismantles the man who gave me a home when I needed it most.
Anger at myself.
For getting my hopes up. For believing he could be getting better. For letting my guard down. For getting distracted.
For falling in love.
“He doesn’t even remember my name,” I grit out. The bone knocks against my chest when I press my hand to my heart. “I’ve seen him every single day for the last four years, and he doesn’t remember my fucking name.
You think he remembers your husband? Get the fuck off his goddamn property.”
I turn and take Arthur’s hand, muttering an apology to the mayor and the sheriff and the gardening club representatives.
“Harper.” Max jogs to my side, laying a hand on my shoulder as I guide Arthur toward the house. “I can help.”
“Who is Harper?” Arthur says, leaning forward on his cane to glare at Max beneath bushy white brows. “Who are you?”
“It’s okay,” I say, but to whom, I’m not sure. And it’s not okay. I’m barely managing to keep myself together. I just keep focusing on the front door of the manor house. Once I get inside, I’ll be able to breathe again. “He just needs a break. We’ll be fine. But I appreciate it, thank you.”
I toss a weak smile over my shoulder. Max lets her hand fall to her side, her brow furrowed. She gives me a nod. Her desire to help is clearly genuine.
But she’s already seen too much.
“Who is Harper?” Arthur asks again.
I squeeze his hand. It’s tempting to tell him not to worry about it. That Harper is nobody. It wouldn’t be a lie. But it wouldn’t be a kept promise either. “Harper is your friend,” I say, swallowing the fist lodged in my throat.
“And she loves you very much.”
Arthur grumbles something I can’t make out. His brows are drawn, his jaw working as he mulls this over. We reach the front door, and though I told
myself I’d be able to breathe once it was closed behind us, it’s not true. My chest is knit tight with all the things I won’t let myself think about. Not until I get Arthur settled.
I lead Arthur to the kitchen and slide the newspaper in his direction, asking him questions to keep him occupied as I make him tea. How’s that storm looking for tomorrow? Is there still a discount at the Starlight Boutique? Have they published the roundup for the Taste of Terror festival yet? Every time Arthur reverts to talking about the “hideous purse demon” or “the wretched woman on the lawn,” I ask him another question. Then I bring him a plate of cheese and crackers, his cup of tea, and a dose of Risperdal to calm his agitation. I sit with him as he eats. We talk about the local news, the weather—anything to take both our minds off what just happened. And when he’s done, I take him to the living room for his nap, that sense of suffocation never leaving my lungs.
“Harper,” Arthur says, his voice a little sleepy, his gaze caught on the garden diagrams spread across his desk as I lower him onto the recliner.
“Yes?”
“Did . . . did we have the judging for the garden today?”
“We did indeed,” I reply, laying a blanket over his lap. I place his cane within reach, the wolf staring into the distance of the room like a guardian.
Arthur fidgets with the edge of the crocheted squares where a thread has come loose. “I don’t remember it.”
“That’s okay.” I take Arthur’s phone from my pocket and open his playlist, selecting Schubert’s “Shepherd on the Rock” to play through his Bluetooth speakers. He seems reassured when I smile, though confusion still lingers in his features. “It was nothing worth remembering,” I say. And before he can ask any more questions, I give him a kiss on his cheek. “I have to go. Give me a shout if you need anything. I love you, Arthur.”
I rise and stride toward the arched entrance of the room. I’m nearly at the threshold when Arthur calls out, “Harper.”
My palm lands on the carved oak that sweeps over my head as I turn to face him. He seems so frail in his chair with the blanket stretched across his lap. So vulnerable, despite everything he’s done.
“Thank you,” he says. “For everything.”
I do my best to smile. “Of course, Arthur.”
When I turn away, sorrow swallows me whole.
The judging committee is long gone. The property is quiet. Someone has closed the gate to the driveway, sealing our secrets behind iron bars of leaves and flowers. But I feel like our sins are growing through the cracks.
And I let someone breach our defenses.
Every step I take, I force my despair into dark corners of my heart, stoking my fury to life instead.
I got two gifts today. Gloves from Arthur. And a bone from the only person who knew where to find it. The one person I told. The man I fucking
trusted.
Nolan Rhodes.
The betrayal sings through my veins, wiping out any defenses my mind comes up with the moment they arise. Maybe it was a mistake, I think. But a piece of damning evidence doesn’t just magically show up among the exact same poisonous flowers Nolan referenced in one of his notes. Maybe he has an explanation. But what could it possibly be, other than “I wanted to fuck with your life”? I told him where this bone was—him and only him. No one else could have known where it was, or would have the motivation to use it against me the way that he did. But he said that he loved me. And then two days ago, I told Nolan I loved him too. It felt so real when he said it back. I had no doubt in my heart.
And what could possibly be a better revenge than that?
There are feelings. And there are facts. What if he gave them to me all along, and I ignored the messages? Just like he ignored me all the times I told him I wasn’t the woman he thought I was?
“I just want a little bit of you for myself,” he’d told me when I gave him McMillan’s shirt to plant at the lake—the same one that’s never shown up in the search.
“I want to make you suffer for what you’ve done to me,” he’d whispered when he fucked me in the shed.
“What if the clues were there all along?” I whisper aloud, my hand clutched to the ache in my chest.
Maybe he couldn’t risk murdering me, not with everything going on in
this town. But the truth is, I let him close enough that he knew this fate would be worse for me than death. He opened each layer of my heart only to crush them like petals in a fist. He knew exactly how to make me into a living ghost. How to kill me while keeping me alive.
By the time I reach the back gate to the cottage, I’m vibrating with rage.
Morpheus caws as I pass his bird feeder, but I have nothing left on me to give him. When I get to the back door, I slip soundlessly inside, heading straight for the cupboard under the sink. I pull out the SIG Sauer handgun hidden there and check the magazine, blowing out a long breath when I find it still loaded with rounds.
I check every room. Every closet. Every hiding place. But Nolan isn’t here.
When I get back downstairs, I check the freezer. There’s no note left behind like I once did to him when I stole his scrapbook. When I check the garbage can, the tinfoil that once wrapped the bone is there, crumpled up on top of the domestic refuse of what I thought was our imperfectly perfect life.
I slam the drawer shut and smash my fist on the counter, an enraged cry escaping from my throat.
Nolan came here with one motive: revenge for the accident that took his brother. And I was the fool who confessed to being there that night. A fool for believing anything he said.
“I promised.” I smash my hand on the counter again. “I fucking promised.”
It won’t be me, I’d promised myself. Never again.
I was never going to be caught again. Never going to suffer at the hands of a psychopath again. Never going to let my guard down again.
And I’ve let it all happen.
I hit the counter over and over until pain radiates through my wrist and elbow. But eventually I realize that there’s one person I want to punish more than myself. Ragged breaths saw from my chest as I straighten. My hands shake as I wipe the tears from my lashes before they can touch my cheeks.
And then I calmly walk to the couch.
I sit, placing the gun next to my lap. Next I take the gloves, setting them on the coffee table as though having them in sight will bring me strength. I
place my phone on the side table. And lastly, I take out Bryce Mahoney’s bone. I turn it in the light. The shattered ivory points. The scarred silver plate.
The metal screws.
How did I miss the signs? How did I not know this was all about revenge?
How could I believe him when he said that he loved me?
How could I let myself love him back?
The ache in my heart steals my breath. But I force it down into the dark.
I will not break my promise again.
My phone buzzes with a text. I glance over to see Nolan’s contact information flash on the screen and pick it up.
Did you win?
A grim, mirthless laugh escapes my control.
“Not yet,” I say aloud before I turn the phone face down, staring at the chessboard as the light slowly bleeds from the room.
Morpheus flutters to the open window, regarding me with inky eyes.
“Pretty murder bird,” he says in my voice.
“That’s right,” I whisper, looking down at the gun in my hand. “We are.”
