DEVIATION
Nolan
I’M IN THE GENERAL STORE on Davis Avenue, putting things into my shopping cart that I should not be buying for my mortal enemy.
Just like I’ve done for the last three days in a row.
After the first night when I swam through the frigid current of the Ballantyne River, I bought a laser measurer so we could just point it at the rock across the water and have the correct distance in a matter of seconds. I convinced myself it was for me, so that I wouldn’t have to brave another night swim. But when I picked her up that night to drive us there, I kept thinking about the way she watched me as I undressed. The way her gaze slid over me like the caress of fingertips in the dark. I could feel it, even when I looked away. I thought about the way she chewed the corner of her lip. Maybe I shouldn’t have wanted her thoughts on me for a second night.
Or a third, or a fourth. But I did, and I still do.
The laser measurer has stayed in my new backpack, the box unopened.
The next day, I bought Harper a better-quality shovel. I told myself it would make the whole experience of digging up bodies much faster. We only have a little over two weeks left before the land sale is complete, and we’ll still need to cover our tracks when we’re done. Actually, I got the new shovel because it has a sharp and pointed end. Since she insists on walking home every night with a sack of bones slung over her shoulder, I figured she should at least have something she can use as a weapon in case another Jake Hornell comes along. Fucking creep.
Maybe I should have more seriously considered that she could use said shovel on me. But every time I think about her watching me undress to swim, I don’t believe she would. She might be uneasy around me, but I don’t think it’s purely because of the threats I’ve made or the kind of man she knows I am.
Yesterday, I got her bear spray. What if a shovel isn’t the best weapon? I don’t want her within striking distance of a fucking bear. The thought of its claws raking through her skin makes a twinge of nausea swirl in my stomach. I didn’t tell her that when I gave it to her, of course. I blamed it on the book in her possession, which she was pretty clear would go to the authorities if anything happens to her, and she’s brash and smart enough to back up that promise. I’m not about to call her bluff. “I don’t want to go to jail if you’re mauled by a wild animal,” I’d said as I thrust the can of bear spray in her direction as though it was an inconvenience and not a gift.
“Don’t let anything get close.”
She’d scrutinized the can as though there might be explosives hidden inside before she finally said a quiet “thank you” and slid it into her jacket pocket. And then, with the bag of bones slung over her shoulder like a sack of vegetables from the farmer’s market, she said her curt goodbye and slunk off into the night. I watched her go, berating myself for not walking with her, and cursing myself even more for worrying about the woman who ruined my life.
The problem is, every time I remind myself of how she ripped Billy from me, or how she broke my bones and shattered my existence, or how she drove away and left me to die alone on the road, insidious questions rise through the murk of latent rage: What if she didn’t ruin it? What if she gave me a purpose when I had none?
“That’s stupid,” I say aloud as I place a mosquito repellent device back on the shelf. A woman pushing a toddler in a stroller crinkles her nose at me with a look of distaste. I give her a sheepish smile and a nod, placing the device back into my cart. Her eyes only narrow as she passes me and continues down the aisle. I pick up a box of extra repellent cartridges and
look for the next items on my mental list. A tarp. An expedition-sized backpack. A brighter lantern than her current one. Is that too much?
I pick up a little Coleman stove at the end of the aisle. Fuck it. I don’t have to give it to her. I can keep it for myself. Maybe I’ll make hot chocolate and drink it all myself in some petty-ass move to antagonize her.
She’s pretty fucking adorable when her feathers are ruffled.
No, she is not.
My fingers tighten around the box before I shove the stove into my cart.
I find the rest of the items I’m looking for and pay before heading to my rental vehicle to place them in the trunk. It’s early afternoon and still sunny, but it’s supposed to turn into a miserable evening with a cold rain by the time we’re out looking for the next burial site. We’ve been making good progress so far, a body every night. Harper works hard. She never complains, never balks at the late hours or the tedious labor or the persistent insects, not even when a huge June bug pinged off her headlamp and fell into her top. She screeched and flapped and turned away to fish it out of her bra, then merely switched her light off and kept working in the moonlight.
“Cheeky fucker,” she’d muttered as I pressed my lips together to kill my smile in case she looked my way. “Could have bought me a drink first.”
I swallowed a laugh, but only barely.
Even now, as I slide into the driver’s seat, I catch a glimpse of my smile in the rearview mirror.
“Shut the fuck up,” I growl at my reflection before I key the engine and pull away from the curb.
I turn the corner onto Main Street. Harper is still at the forefront of my thoughts when I catch sight of her dark hair and her now-familiar gait as she enters Maya’s Magical Mixtures, and I slip into an empty spot along the road before I even fully realize what I’m doing.
I could drive away. Go about the rest of my day like what she does is none of my business right now, at least not until our deal is done. Some separation would probably do me some good, so my obsession with her doesn’t fully rule every waking hour like it already does my dreams.
I’m jogging across the street before I give my protests another thought.
I try not to linger at the missing person flyer stapled to the telephone pole outside the shop, Jake Hornell’s name in block letters and his smiling face grinning back at me. A coil of rage tightens beneath my ribs before I refocus on my destination, and I slow my steps to watch through the bay windows as Harper moves through the space, the handle of a basket tucked against her elbow as she heads to an aisle that says FIRST AID. She picks up a jar to examine the label. There’s a bandage covering the back of her left hand.
In my next heartbeat, I’m yanking open the door and striding toward her.
“What the fuck is this?” I hiss as I catch her wrist and loom over her.
Surprise ignites in her eyes, brightening to a flame of white-hot irritation.
“Hello to you, too, psycho stalker.” She tries to tear her arm from my grip, but I don’t let go. “What the hell is wrong with you—”
“What is this? Did something happen last night?”
“I—”
“Was it on the walk home? I fucking told you I’d drive you—”
“It wasn’t—”
“Did someone do this to you? Was it a wild animal? Why didn’t you use
your bear spray?”
“On a fucking coffee pot?”
I blink at her, then pull the jar from her grasp, turning it to read the label.
“Crispy Skin Burns and Blisters …?”
Harper rolls her eyes, her cheeks crimson. “It’s burn ointment, you fucking weirdo,” she grits out. “And you’re making a scene. What the hell is wrong with you?”
She tosses a brittle smile toward the counter behind me and I follow her gaze. Maya pushes her glasses up her nose, her eyes as sharp as obsidian blades behind their lenses. She assesses the tension in my shoulders, the grip of my hand around Harper’s delicate wrist that I can’t seem to let go of.
I give Maya a fleeting smile and an untroubled wave with the ointment in my hand before I turn my back on her and place all my attention where it feels like it belongs. On Harper.
“I don’t understand what the fuck has gotten into you,” she whispers, twisting her arm until I finally let go. My palm feels cold in the absence of
her warmth. Before I can delve too deeply into why this unpleasant chill is traveling into my flesh, she rips the jar out of my hand and thrusts it into her
basket.
“You burned yourself?”
She pierces me with a glare, her silver eyes shards of pure malice. “Yes, and what the hell do you care? I’m not going to have your precious book sent to the FBI because of a fucking coffee incident,” she whispers before walking away down the aisle.
I should get her a Keurig, a traitorous little voice in my head declares.
No. I will not buy her a fucking Keurig, goddamnit.
“Are you …? Did you …?” I clear my throat, unsure what I’m even trying to ask. I want to know if she’s okay, but it shouldn’t matter. I want to sluice the guilt from my veins for letting it happen, but I don’t know why I feel like it’s my fault. I don’t think she appreciates my concern anyway, judging by the lethal stare she cuts me with. We’re enemies. She killed my brother. She destroyed my fucking life. Some things cannot be forgiven.
Harper is clearly sticking to the brief. So why can’t I?
“Like I said. Coffee accident. But I’m surprised you didn’t know that already, seeing as how you spent the morning stalking me.”
“What?”
Harper shrugs, though there’s nothing nonchalant about it. “I figured if you went to the trouble of flying a drone over my house, you’ve probably been looking through my windows the whole time too.”
My brows draw together with confusion, but Harper barely looks at me as she makes her way down the aisle, feigning interest in different ointments and concoctions on the shelves. “I didn’t fly a drone over your house,” I say.
“Oh, really? Because you’ve spied on me with one before, haven’t you,” she whisper-snarls, not a question but an accusation. She flicks her bandaged hand in my direction and I suppress a sudden urge to snatch it out of the air so I can get a proper look at the wound beneath the white gauze.
“You were flying that thing as I was going to the gym the other morning.
That’s how you got the dumbass idea about me having a crush on”—her eyes dart around us before she leans closer—“you know who.”
Fucking Jake Hornell. I would kill him again if I could. And I would take my time about it. I would make him suffer.
I shake my head to rid it of those murderous fantasies and all the questions that threaten to arise about why it would be so fucking satisfying to do it all over again. “I swear to you, I wasn’t piloting any drone today.”
“Sure. I almost believe you.”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
“Then who was?”
“I don’t know.” I scratch my stubble, worry gnawing at my guts as Harper watches me, notes of fear hidden deep beneath her tough exterior. I did spend some time following Sam around the first couple of days. It wasn’t very enlightening. He had busied himself interviewing locals in the privacy of their homes or businesses. But when I’d been close enough to eavesdrop, the conversation centered around uncovering anything that would prove Arthur Lancaster is the infamous La Plume. He was obsessed.
And judging by his furrowed brow and deep frown as he scribbled notes in a leatherbound journal, he wasn’t getting the big hit he was looking for. Yet.
So far, he’s been staying away from Lancaster Manor.
How do I know?
Because I have not been staying away from Harper Starling.
Whenever I’ve felt reasonably sure that Sam has been occupied with his interviews, I’ve let myself succumb to following Harper, as though I’m indulging in a drug I can’t say no to. I’ve hopped the stone wall surrounding her cottage and watched from the bushes like a proper fucking creep as she’s worked in the garden of Lancaster Manor, edging the beds, planting new flowers, trimming hedges and trees.
Other times, she’s tended to the public gardens around town. The flowers that frame the WELCOME TO CAPE CARNAGE sign. The park on Randall Road.
The hanging baskets that line Main Street. She had help putting those up from a trio of guys that I recognized from the coffee shop the other day.
They’re all older men wearing wedding bands, but it scratched at my nerves all the same. I could have been the one to help her. Maybe if I had, she’d let her guard down and give me enough information to figure out what she’s
done with my scrapbook. Then I could get back to my real reason for being here. At least, that’s what I keep trying to tell myself.
“Sam’s drone operator,” I finally answer. Irritation crawls beneath my skin like scuttling insects. I thought I’d built enough of a rapport with Sam that he would ask me if he needed help with the drone again, but clearly I was wrong. “He must have arrived this morning, I guess.”
“You guess? I thought that was part of our deal, that you were supposed to be keeping tabs on Porter and leading him away.”
“I have been.”
Harper snorts. “Clearly.”
“Maybe I’ve been too busy with other projects.” I pick up a small bottle, Corpse Reviver Hangover Juice written above the image of a dancing skeleton on the black label. I toss it into Harper’s basket and she hits me with a vicious glare.
“You’re not the one who also has to work all day. And I have to rebuild a fucking soapbox racer too so I can cover your ass for your little bird feeder present. You’re welcome, by the way.” She picks up several bottles of fake blood and drops them into her basket. A little spark seems to dance in her eyes just long enough to arouse my instincts for self-preservation, and then she turns her back on me to continue down the aisle. “I hope you’re enjoying your stupid fucking holiday in my town. What are you even doing with yourself all day? Aside from not keeping up your end of our deal.”
Watching you, my very unhelpful internal monologue volunteers with cheerful enthusiasm.
“Right,” she says before I have a chance to cobble an answer together.
“You’ve been doing sweet fuck all, which is super surprising. I’m truly shocked. And now, since you haven’t been deflecting him like you promised, Sam is flying drones over Arthur’s fucking property, spying on us as we’re trying to have a cup of coffee. And what recourse do I have to stop him? It’s not like I really want to call Sheriff Yates, you know?”
“Why not? Does La Plume have bodies buried on the home estate too?”
Harper reaches the end of the aisle and turns on me, and though I expect the vicious look in her eyes from my needling remarks, that’s not all I see.
There’s a glassy sheen over their gunmetal depths. She swallows, staring up
at me in a challenge. “Believe whatever you want about me. I know what you think I’ve done, and I don’t fucking care about trying to change your mind. But you are wrong, Nolan. Arthur Lancaster is not La Plume.”
I could argue back. Say something about our nightly excursions that seem to prove otherwise. But the conviction in her eyes gives me pause.
And Harper takes that beat of time to push past me, brushing the fingers of her bandaged hand beneath her lashes as she goes.
“Harper—”
“Leave me alone.”
I watch her walk to the counter and unload her basket, Maya’s obvious concern shifting between Harper and me. She whispers something to Harper, who only nods before paying for her goods in cash she pulls from the chest pocket of her faded plaid shirt, hastily packing her purchases into a backpack, then slinging it over her shoulder. When Harper stalks toward the door, she darts a brief glance in my direction. It’s only long enough to imprint the image of her pain and anger into my memory, and then she’s gone.
I move closer to the bay window, watching as she heads down the street.
Her bandaged hand swings in the sun as she strides away from me as fast as she can without running. I contemplate exiting the store so I can track her from the sidewalk, but I linger there, watching through the window as though she might return.
With a deep sigh, I shift my attention across the street, my focus passing over the increasingly familiar shops. A Shipwrecked Bean. Craft-A-Corpse.
Bhandari Law Offices. Disco Barber. A new office that just opened, Viceroy Properties.
And standing across the street at the entrance of Viceroy is Sam Porter.
He’s got papers clutched in his hand. A camera bag slung over his shoulder.
He’s facing the same direction where Harper just left. His eyes are fixed on
something in the distance.
Or someone.
A breath later, I’m leaving Maya’s shop and striding toward him.
He catches sight of my brisk walk and gives me a brief flash of a smile and a wave with the papers in his hand before he opens the flap of his bag
and slides them inside. I catch the pale greens and blues of a map before they slip into the shadows. My heart knocks against my ribs.
“Hey, Sam,” I say, trying to keep my voice light, though it’s more of a struggle than I thought it would be.
“Rhodes. Hey, man.” He extends a hand and I shake it, and he’s barely touched my palm before he’s nodding in the direction Harper just walked.
“You know her?”
I follow his gesture and look down the street, spotting Harper’s dark hair blowing in the breeze. I keep scanning the sidewalk, not wanting to let my attention linger on her in case he notices. “Who?”
“The woman there,” he says, pointing to her. “The one with the plaid shirt. She was just in the same shop as you.”
I shake my head and shrug, not taking my eyes from Harper until she disappears around the bend of the road. “Nope. Sorry. Don’t know her.”
Sam gives only a thoughtful hum that’s colored with a note of disappointment. I offer him an untroubled smile, but the one he gives me in reply is only faint. I can tell his thoughts are elsewhere, and when his gaze darts to where Harper has faded from view, it’s not hard to track their whereabouts. “How’s the documentary going?” I ask, trying to swallow the sudden need to throw him off her scent. “Making progress?”
“Getting there.” He pats his camera bag with a little more enthusiasm than he had moments ago. “Finished a few interviews, waiting on a few more.”
“Need any help with the drone again? I’ve got free time. Happy to lend a hand if you need.”
“Thanks, man. My guy showed up, so I should be all set, but I’ll let you know.” Sam smiles, though his eyes slide back down the road, narrowing just long enough to betray his thoughts of pursuit. If he’s seen Harper sitting with Arthur outside the cottage that once belonged to Poppy Lancaster, I’m sure Harper is a new target. Another layer in an already complicated history.
But the spark in his eyes makes me feel like there’s something more. His expression now is the antithesis of the one I saw painted on his face after the interviews, when it was obvious that there was something missing from the picture he was trying to pull together.
The man before me now is a hunter. He’s got the expression of a predator who has caught the scent of its prey on the wind. I know it, because I’ve seen that same look in my own eyes when I’ve stared in the mirror and imagined the blood I was about to spill. I’ve seen it when I told the mirror I was going to kill Harper Starling.
“Well,” Sam says, patting his bag where the papers are hidden, “I’d better run, got lots of work to do. I’ll see you around?”
“Sure will,” I reply.
Sam leaves me on the sidewalk, but the growing dread remains long after I watch him drive away.
