BLIGHT
Nolan
IT’S FUCKING CHAOS.
Volunteers and police. The crackle of walkie-talkies and the hum of a drone. Press, roving the fringes like vultures. Evanston’s panicking wife, who doesn’t yet know she’s a widow. The incessant barking of their fucking dog.
I came to Cape Carnage for murder and a hot tub. I’m staying for a woman who might not love me and the man her mentor killed.
Not exactly the vacation I signed up for.
I pour a fresh cup of tea and shove a shitty ham sandwich into my mouth as I shift my attention to the maps spread before me on the folding table.
After holding a briefing here at the command center in the library parking lot, I sent most of the volunteers out to the woods beyond Simmons Loop, where I’m relatively sure they’ll come up empty for evidence, unless Arthur Lancaster has yet another clandestine burial ground that Harper hasn’t told me about. They’ll be leaving the popular trails to bushwhack over hills and around bogs. It’s tough country, and they’ve already reported their progress is slow.
The remaining volunteers are split between the lighthouse and the cape. In another few hours, when the tide is low, a team will start combing the narrow beaches beneath the cliffs of the promontory—another safe place to waste their time. But a looming sense of dread catches in the back of my throat as my gaze sticks to other areas of the map. Ones that Yates could easily request in the scope of my search. The silver mine. The grounds of the distillery.
Maybe there are other burial sites that even Harper doesn’t know about. I could be sending a crew into the epicenter of her undoing at this very
moment.
I groan. A headache splinters across my skull. I pull my phone from my pocket. There are family group chat messages. Useless social media updates.
And a Sleuthseekers Discord ping from thirty minutes ago. Ice races beneath my flesh. I’m about to open the app, but stop dead when an even greater terror catches the corner of my eye.
A familiar gait. Long, dark hair swinging in a high ponytail. Fucking
overalls.
“Goddammit, Harper Starling,” I hiss.
My tea sloshes onto the map when I knock the table. I leave it to soak through the paper as I run to catch up with her. She weaves between volunteers, nearly making it to the registration desk before I catch her wrist.
“What in the absolute fuck are you doing here?” I whisper-snarl when she spins to face me.
A devious little smile creeps across her face as she gives me a salute.
“Hello to you too, SAR Czar.”
“Either your self-preservation skills are nonexistent, or you’re trying to give me a fucking heart attack.”
“Probably both,” she says, waving with an untroubled smile to a woman who passes by. When she returns her focus back to me, there’s a flicker of unease in her expression. “You look hot in work mode, by the way. Your high-vis vest really brings out your eyes.”
“Un-fucking-believable.”
I keep hold of her wrist as I lead us toward the grass and away from the crowd, not stopping until we’re out of earshot from potential eavesdroppers.
The moment I let her go, her arms fold across her chest, defiance radiating from her in waves. It’s as intoxicating as it is infuriating. “Care to explain what the fuck you’re doing in the lion’s den?” I ask.
“Same as you, Nolan. I’m blending in. I realized people would start talking if I didn’t participate, especially when you’re the one leading the search. Remember how much gossip there was after we went to dinner?
Everyone and their dog is here. Literally,” she says, flicking a hand toward Killer Queenie, the wretched little beast that yaps with metronomic precision from Mrs. Evanston’s arms. As much as I hate to admit it, Harper has a point
about the optics of sitting it out, even though I hate it. “I’ve checked a box and made a brief appearance, and now you can stick me with some low- visibility team where I can pretend to give a shit about the guy who hit Arthur in the face. Job done.”
“There were reporters here literally half an hour ago,” I warn.
“I know. They’re at the Buoy and Beacon for half-priced lunch. Trust me, they’re occupied. Those lobster rolls are . . . ” She trails off, giving a dramatic al bacio before refocusing on me, her amusement suddenly absent. “I promise I’ll be gone before they order the crème caramel for dessert.
Anyway, I wanted to catch you for a minute. Something has come up.”
My head tilts, my eyes narrowing. “Would it have anything to do with a certain Texas Tech sweater, an incense holder, or a knife?”
The unease I saw in Harper’s eyes moments ago ignites into a flash of fear. “What . . . ?”
“Those belong to you, don’t they? I mean, the other you.”
Her throat shifts as she swallows, her shoulders tensing. “Yes . . . but no.
That’s not why I’m here—”
“Ah. So the Sleuthseekers Discord then.”
“The fuck?”
“What’s on it? Has anyone finalized their plans for coming to Carnage?” I ask, pulling my phone from my pocket to look for myself.
“What are you doing still lurking on the Sleuthseekers Discord?”
“Same thing as you, of course. Keeping tabs on them.” I scroll to the most recent messages. My heart kicks against my sternum as I see a username I recognize, and a photo I remember from Sam’s room at the Capeside Inn.
One of Harper in the distance, her back to the camera as she walks away from our argument in Maya’s Magical Mixtures after I confronted her about the burn on her hand. God, I was a such a dick to her that day, needling her with accusations about Arthur being La Plume and killing his own daughter.
Though I still don’t believe he’s good for Harper, it was a low blow, one that succeeded in causing her pain.
I swallow a burst of remorse and turn the screen to face her. “Just like Sam was keeping tabs on you. And they might not yet know who you are or why you were important to his documentary, but they seem determined to figure it
out. What if they think you had something to do with his death because he was tracking you? What then?”
I take a step closer, crowding her space, and Harper doesn’t back down.
The closer I get, the straighter she stands, and the only thing that keeps me from trying to scream my frustrations and fears at her is the sudden and overwhelming desire to drag her into the grass and lose myself in her instead.
And I’m guessing she feels the same.
Her focus lands on my lips and sticks there longer than it should. “It is only a matter of time if you’re out in the open,” I whisper, breaking the spell that crackles between us. “We both know they’re coming, Harper. And if you’re in the middle of a Search and Rescue operation, all the misdirection or planted evidence in the world won’t save us. They will find you.”
We’re locked in a wordless war, staring each other down. The tension fizzes between us. It’s in the air, static before a storm. It’s the sharpened blade of her silver gaze. She’s so fucking beautiful when she’s defiant.
Nothing makes me want her more. But nothing hurts worse than the thought of losing her.
“Just the two people I was looking for,” a voice says behind me, a sudden shock of familiarity that shatters our private moment. A hand clamps down on my injured shoulder.
I press my eyes closed, crushing a curse between my molars. When I open them, Harper’s focus is on the man behind me, a faint but fake smile curving her lips. She doesn’t dare look at me. Doesn’t risk communicating anything to me with a glance. “Afternoon, Sheriff,” she says.
I pivot to face Yates, keeping my body just enough between him and Harper that he’d have to get through me first to reach her. “How’d it go at Clarke Road?” I ask.
If Sheriff Yates is pissed that I just dropped a potential clue to Harper in an ongoing investigation, he doesn’t let on. He just grins at us both, sliding his hand on the grip of his holstered gun.
“Fine, fine. Not much to report, not yet at least. These old, rundown places are like a magnet for teenagers looking for a place to drink without getting rained on or caught by the likes of myself.” Yates lifts his good shoulder, his left arm still strapped into a sling. “Small-town policing, you know? Same
type of trouble every year.”
“I bet,” I reply. “Well, Harper was just about to head out—”
“To the volunteer table,” she interjects. I barely resist the urge to glare at her over my shoulder. “Thought I would chip in, you know?”
“That’s why I was hoping to run into you too,” Yates says to her.
“Oh, really?”
“I think we’d better add two names to our search. One is a man named Sean McMillan. A tourist. We booked him for a night at the station when he caused a scene at the hospital on the night of June fifteenth. Actually”— Yates pauses as he pulls a small black notebook from his pocket and flips the pages—“I think you might have been there when it happened, Harper. You called in an ambulance for Arthur Lancaster and were with him in the hospital that evening, correct?”
I turn enough to look at Harper, but she keeps her eyes locked on Yates.
“Yeah, I was there. Saw a guy push over a nurse.”
“Yep, that’d be him.” Yates gives us a wan smile. “We released him the next morning on a citation. He didn’t show up at the station on the eighteenth like he was supposed to—I figured he was on a bender or lying low to avoid us, seeing as how it’s not his first brush with the law. But it turns out he should have checked out of the Lionshead Motel three days ago, and his family filed a missing persons report yesterday. You hear or see anything during that altercation that might tell us where to look, Harper?”
Harper’s eyes track to the sky, as though she’s searching her memory. She shakes her head and refocuses on the sheriff. “Not that I can recall, sorry. The guy just kept ranting about people telling him to calm down. But nothing more.”
“Yeah, didn’t think so.” Yates closes his notebook, sliding it back into his pocket. He gives it a few pats that slow as his graying brows knit with a thought. My heart thuds in double time. “But, say . . . maybe you remember something about Jake Hornell? After a bit of a debate with the town council, we’ve decided to add him to the search list too. From what I understand, you’re one of the last people to see Jake before he went missing. Would have
been June sixth.”
“Was I?”
“Well, I believe so. Isn’t that right, Mr. Rhodes?” Yates’s eyes shift to mine, his head tilting like a curious dog’s. And though he keeps his expression eerily blank, I don’t get the sense he’s the hapless golden retriever that Harper seems to think he is. The sharpness beneath Yates’s gaze is more like a Malinois that’s calculating how quickly it can sink its teeth into my neck. Unease trickles down my spine when he says, “I think we talked about you piloting the drone when you came into my office to discuss Sam Porter, actually. The thing about how he was bothering Harper, if I recall correctly.”
Fuck. I never told Harper about that.
I clear my throat, sensing Harper’s surprise and irritation burning into my shoulder. “That’s right, sir.”
“I thought I remembered that right.” Yates smiles, giving his temple a tap.
“Sam was a little hard to pin down, but I managed to get that footage from him the day before he took a tumble at the distillery. Didn’t get a chance to watch it until last night. Seems like you were having a friendly conversation with our Jake outside of the gym, Harper.”
A spike of rage hits my veins, blinding me. Though I catalog the sheriff’s congenial smile and his chameleon eyes that seem greener than usual, as though they’re reflecting my high-vis vest back to me, it’s a moment of the past that I’m truly focused on. It’s the image of Jake wrapping Harper in an embrace. It’s the memory of the need that gripped me in a vise. The need to rip him apart.
“Yeah, just the usual,” Harper says, her voice like a nonchalant shrug.
Any attempts I’ve just made to anchor onto her words and pull myself out of this spiral are eradicated when Yates says, “I thought there was something going on between you and Hornell? Didn’t Bert say you went on a couple of dates?”
“I wouldn’t say dates, necessarily—” Harper says as my body temperature spikes, “—more like karaoke at the Buoy and Beacon a couple of times. But everybody goes to the Beacon for karaoke—you know that.”
“But I thought Bert said he saw you with him at Nightfog recently?” Yates presses.
“No. You’re probably thinking of Nolan.” Harper touches my hand, which I realize only now is clenched in a tight fist.
Fuck my life.
My brain has been dumped into a blender, and Yates is pressing buttons at will. When he refocuses his attention on me, I have no fucking clue what my face is doing. I probably look like I want to rip his skin off and wear it like a goddamn cloak. But if he notices, he doesn’t let on. He just gives a little nod and a tight-lipped smile.
“Bah, you’re probably right,” he says with a dismissive wave. “All that town gossip is a little hard to keep track of, you know?”
“Sure do.”
“Well, it’s probably for the best that nothing ever came of you and Hornell. Better you wind up with a nice boy like Rhodes here,” Yates says, clapping my arm with a strong hand before shifting his focus back to Harper.
“So, Mr. Hornell didn’t say anything about his plans for the day when you saw him? Anyone he was going to meet up with, maybe . . . ?”
“Not that I can recall, no. We just chatted about the gym. But if I remember anything else, I’ll let you know.”
Yates’s smile broadens and he tips the end of his ball cap to her, like he’s some fucking caricature of small-town policing. It’s as though he’s going through the motions of what the man behind the uniform is supposed to do.
“Appreciate you, Harper,” he says, and jerks his head toward the main tent of the command center in a bid for us to follow.
I spare a discontented glance at Harper before we trail after Yates, and the one she shoots back is one of sharpened steel and predatory determination.
Get your shit together, she says in nothing more than a narrowing of her eyes.
I grit my teeth and face forward.
“Hornell had a habit of getting into trouble when he was drinking,” Yates says over his shoulder, more to me than to Harper, as we start weaving through the crowd. “He seemed to be on the straight and narrow since the DUI six months ago.”
“You think he just went on a bender, maybe? People like that have a habit of turning up eventually.” That’s a lie. While they have a habit of turning up, when they’ve been gone as long as Hornell, it’s usually in a body bag.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought too. But the mayor thinks we should add him to the search, especially with Mrs. Evanston making such a fuss in town and
stirring up the press. If we initiate a search for one man and not another, it’ll raise questions.”
“Sure thing,” I reply, glancing back at Harper to continue our silent conversation. Get the fuck out of here while you still can, my lowered brows say. Harper’s wordless response clearly declares, Get bent. I roll my eyes, and when I turn forward once more, I nearly face-plant into the sheriff’s broad back. I suppress a groan when I get a view of the obstacle to our
progress.
That fucking dog.
Mrs. Evanston holds on to that irritating little demon like it’s a lifeline, her eyes puffy and swollen, as she asks Sheriff Yates if there’s been any update on the search for her husband. I do feel bad for the woman, even if her dog is a wolverine hiding in the fur of a teacup Maltese. That awful ball of fuzz has spent the morning trying to attack everyone who comes within biting distance when it’s not sheltered in Mrs. Evanston’s iron grip.
Everyone except Harper.
The moment she sees Harper, the dog’s entire demeanor changes. She whines. Paddles her tiny legs. Scrapes at her owner’s arm. “All right, all right,” Mrs. Evanston says, adjusting Queenie’s harness before setting her down on the pavement. “What’s gotten into you?”
The dog goes straight for Harper, bouncing at her feet in a bid to be picked up.
“Oh,” Harper says, and it’s the first time I sense an unsure tremor in her voice. She squats down to pet the dog. Queenie tries to climb onto her thighs as she licks Harper’s hand with enthusiasm. “Hello, cute little thing. Who are you?”
Mrs. Evanston’s brows furrow as she takes a step closer, her eyes shifting between Harper and Sheriff Yates in a way that I do not like. “Have you . . . have you met Queenie before? Have you seen her?”
“No, I—”
“Are you sure?”
“I’d remember—”
“She seems to know you, she’s not like this with anyone but family.” Mrs.
Evanston’s eyes shine with tears. Her pulse hums in her neck as she takes a
step forward and bends to get a better look at Harper. My hands tense with the urge to keep her from getting any closer, but I stay planted in place as Yates takes in the scene at my side. “Please, I’m looking for my husband, Peter. He took Queenie for a walk but never came home. She was just there on the lawn by herself. Maybe you saw them two nights ago—”
“I’m sorry,” Harper says, straightening to her full height. She rests a palm on Mrs. Evanston’s trembling shoulder. “I haven’t. She probably smells the jerky I carry around for the ravens. May I?”
Like a fucking pro, she pulls a piece of beef jerky from one of the pockets in her overalls and holds it between them. Queenie lasers in on the treat and immediately sits like she’s at the goddamn Westminster Dog Show. I still haven’t fully established if that jerky is actually beef. For all I know, she could be about to feed Queenie a strip of Peter Evanston. It shouldn’t be morbidly adorable to picture Harper layering strips of Peter into a dehydrator —but somehow, it is.
I swipe a hand down my face. Fucking hell, what am I doing with my life?
“I’ll be damned,” Yates says on the heels of a low whistle as Queenie devours the treat and bounces in a pirouette before staring up at Harper with adoring, beady little eyes. “You’re like an animal whisperer, Harper. Were you a professional dog trainer before you came to Cape Carnage? Or is that something you did as a hobby when you were a kid?”
Harper’s hand stalls on the way to her pocket, just for a heartbeat. Yates watches her with a gentle smile, no malice in his eyes, only what looks like admiration when Harper pulls another piece of jerky from her overalls and gives it to the dog. He couldn’t possibly know about Harper’s childhood dream of being an animal trainer, or her ill-fated sixth-grade talent show, when her dog Pips shit all over the stage. But the mark of that coincidence is still written in her face, in the strained set of her lips and the muscle that tenses in her jaw.
“No,” Harper finally says with a forced smile, brushing her hands off on her overalls. “Just a knack for it, I guess.”
“You are indeed a woman of many talents, Harper Starling,” Yates replies, and before he can read anything from Harper’s expression, he turns his attention to Mrs. Evanston. “I know it’s a very difficult time, ma’am. But
we’ll do everything we can to find your husband. And I will keep you updated, I promise. Now, why don’t you go with Deputy Collins and get something to eat? He brought in some vegan muffins. They’re over at the canteen tent.”
Yates waves the deputy over as Mrs. Evanston gives a shaky nod and picks up Queenie, the dog resuming her yapping as soon as she’s in the woman’s arms. We watch as Collins leads her away by the elbow and helps her to maneuver through the crowd, and once they’re out of earshot, Yates returns his focus to us. “Such a shame,” Yates says, tsking as he slowly shakes his head. “And right as we’re in the throes of tourist season.” He heaves a long sigh and then motions for us to follow with a wave of his hand.
“Come on, kids. Let’s take a look at those maps.”
Harper and I spare each other a brief, sharp glance before we fall in line behind the sheriff and make our way back to the command tent. He stops at the table, taking in the tea splotches on the map and my open thermal mug.
It’s the first time I’ve seen a true fissure in his composure. He carefully peels the soaked paper from the scratched plastic, his expression so cold it burns.
“Clean up your mess next time, Mr. Rhodes. Treat police property with respect.”
I could rip his fucking throat apart with my bare hands. Tear right through flesh and sinew to spill his blood across the ground. And yet, I still feel like some delinquent teenager caught smoking in the high school bathroom. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“Just be more careful next time.” He takes a handful of lanyards from the desk. With Harper’s help to hold the paper up, he uses their grips to pin the map to the overhang of the tent’s entrance where it will dry faster in the sun.
Then he stands back and surveys the terrain.
“Now that we’re extending the search to two more missing individuals, we need to widen our search radius. Given both McMillan and Hornell were enthusiastic drinkers, maybe we start with that in mind. Rhodes, do you have enough volunteers that you can send out a group to start checking the woods behind the Lionshead Motel? There’s a trail just south of the Lionshead that leads to Loon Lake. It’s only half a mile from the motel to the water. Maybe he decided to go for a little swim and never came out.”
Harper and I move to the sheriff’s shoulder and scrutinize the map. “I could go. I know the area pretty well,” Harper ventures, her voice cool and steady, as though it means nothing to her if Yates says no. “I’ll stop by the manor for a minute to check on Arthur, then I could meet a team there if you have anyone to spare, Nolan.”
Fucking genius. She must have something of McMillan’s that she can plant at the lake, something that would easily explain his disappearance as a drunken drowning. Judging by the map, Loon Lake is a big enough body of water that a team could drag the bottom for a body and still come up empty- handed. I take a breath to agree with her proposal when Yates cuts me off.
“Actually,” he says, the earlier edge in his voice softening, “we could use you over here.” Yates’s finger trails across the paper and lands at the Lancaster Distillery. “The main distillery building is still off-limits with the investigation, but you and Lukas know those grounds and outbuildings. If you can maybe wrangle a bit of Lukas’s time to help with the search, I’d appreciate it. He should have a few hours to spare, all things considered.”
“Yeah . . . sure,” Harper replies, and I don’t miss the edge of disappointment in her words. “I can try.”
Yates smiles down his shoulder at her, as though she’s a favorite student while I’m still the loser in detention. My pulse stutters when his gaze lingers on her longer than it should. There’s nothing lecherous about it, nothing violent. But it still sets off an unwelcome tingle at the base of my skull.
“Great,” he finally says. “That’d be a big help. We’ll assign some volunteers to head over there, and another crew to go to the Lionshead.
Maybe Bob can lead that team. You got that, Rhodes?”
I swallow the urge to tell him to butt out of the search he asked me to coordinate. He is the sheriff, after all. But it still grinds my gears to give him an acquiescent “Yes, sir.”
“Excellent,” he says with a clap on my shoulder. “Now let’s get to work.”
He digs his fingers into my muscle again and then strides toward the entrance of the tent. But he halts abruptly. There’s an ominous pause as he turns. Like time has distilled into a prison just as deadly as a blade.
“Oh, there’s maybe another man to add to our list, but keep it between us for now. Seems like he was just passing through a few weeks ago, but he
never turned up home. Bit of a criminal record on him, unfortunately. Either of you heard of a Bryce Mahoney?”
We both say no. But while I’m telling the truth, I know Harper is lying.
It’s in the tiny vein that appears at her temple. It’s in the tension of her lips as she forces herself not to bite down. My guts twist knowing that she’s got another buried secret ready to crawl into the light.
“Didn’t think so,” Yates says, shifting his hat enough to scratch his forehead. “I’m not keen on adding him to the search just yet, considering Carnage wasn’t the only stop on his road trip. No need to unsettle Mayor Patel any more than she already is, unless there’s a solid reason, so keep it to yourselves for now.” We nod, and Yates’s lips curl with a beleaguered smile.
“Who would have thought we’d have all this chaos in a sleepy little town like Cape Carnage, huh?”
“Yeah,” I reply, resisting the pull to cut a glare at Harper, “who would have thought.”
Yates’s grin widens, and then he departs the tent, leaving behind a silence thick enough to choke on.
I don’t know what’s at Lancaster Distillery. Or where. Or how many bodies or what kind of evidence might be lurking there. But I know I can’t stop Harper. Not with that look in her eyes, determination so sharp it cuts right through the layers of fear and frustration that separate us.
“I have to join this search,” she whispers, preempting any argument. “I have no choice.”
“You’ve got to let me in. Not now, I get it,” I say, turning to face her fully.
“But I can’t help you if I’m fumbling around in your shadows.”
Her features soften, just for a moment, her focus dropping to the weight that seems to sit in the dead space between us. “I’ve gotta go,” she says. And before I have a chance to beg, she walks away, leaving me in the dark.
