RUNNING DARK
Harper
I’ll swing by at 9 to pick you up?
NINE O’CLOCK WAS OVER THREE hours ago. I never replied, though one could argue that I had several good reasons.
Reason one: I hate him. Seriously. And I refuse to be dickmatized by that asshole.
Reason two: No matter how hard I keep trying to find evidence to the contrary, Nolan Rhodes hates me too. He told me so. Multiple times. He hates me he hates me he hates me.
Reason three: I do not need him right now. Absolutely not.
And most importantly, reason four: Arthur. I was lucky I found him on the kitchen floor when I did. Though I try not to think about how he could have died after a fall like that, the thought still haunts me, refusing to let go.
I look over to where he’s sleeping soundly despite the beep of his heart rate monitor and the harsh scent of disinfectant and the voices of nurses and patients on the other side of the curtains that separate us from the rest of the emergency ward. A white gauze bandage is taped to his forehead. Dried blood dots the collar of his hospital gown.
I frown, the inside of my bottom lip raw between my teeth. Sometimes I don’t go to the main house after dinner to check on Arthur a final time before bed. I might have so easily rationalized that he didn’t need me. Or assumed he was already in his room and left without checking the kitchen.
He could have spent all night on the cold and unforgiving stone. He could have been there alone. He could have— I shake my head, forcing myself to banish my worst fears.
I don’t need Nolan. I’m not lonely. I’m not afraid. I can do this on my
own.
I don’t miss him.
I groan and press my head against the wall behind me in the hope it might absorb me into another, less complicated dimension. Having a mortal enemy is a lot harder than I anticipated. Because I shouldn’t want him here.
I shouldn’t miss him. At all. Except I think that I do.
I shift on the vinyl seat, the ache between my legs a persistent reminder of my night with Nolan. I should not be thinking about that right now. But every time I close my eyes, I hear his whisper in my ear. I feel his calloused palms on my skin. I catch his scent in the air, bergamot and spice. And it’s not just the sex. It’s the connection that came with it. It felt like I had been cracked open just enough that I could let a little of myself out into the light.
After hiding for so long, I felt seen. For a moment.
But he hates me. I think.
A text buzzes in my hand, and in one heartbeat, Nolan’s name flashes through my mind. But it’s not him. It’s Lukas, and I try to push away the shard of disappointment that lodges in my chest.
How’s grumps?
Grumps? I bet Arthur loves being called that.
AUTOCORRECT! Gramps. But grumps is also pretty accurate.
Grumps is sleeping. I’m just waiting for the doctor to come by. Hopefully we’ll be out of here soon.
Okay. I changed to the earliest flight tomorrow, so I should be home by noon. I’m sorry for the shitty timing for being away.
Not your fault. Don’t worry about it, I don’t mind.
Still, I appreciate your help so much. Thank you.
Don’t thank me yet. I’m going to throw you under the judgy bus with “grumps” the first chance I get.
Fuck you, Harps.
I chuckle and pocket the device just as the curtain is swept to the side and the doctor enters with a nurse whose hospital scrubs stretch over her pregnant belly. With a smile that deftly straddles the line of comforting yet professional, the doctor gives me a nod in greeting as the nurse gets to work changing Arthur’s IV fluids.
“I’m Dr. Reid,” she says with a warm Jamaican accent. I recognize both her and the nurse from town, though we’ve never officially met. “You’re Harper? Arthur’s granddaughter?”
“Oh … no, I mean yes, I’m Harper, but we’re not related. Just friends. I understand if you need to wait and give his medical information to his grandson. He’s away for a meeting but I can call him if you’d rather speak with him directly.”
She taps on her tablet. “No, it’s fine. Arthur authorized you on his medical records.” I glance at Arthur’s bed. He’s still asleep, unaware that my heart has grown two sizes in my chest. “There doesn’t seem to be any sign of a stroke or internal hemorrhage after the fall. He’s got some bumps and bruises, of course, but nothing is broken. However, his bloodwork came back with a B12 deficiency. Has he been particularly irritable lately?”
“It’s Arthur Lancaster. He’s always irritable.”
Dr. Reid does her best to suppress a smile, its faint traces fading as quickly as they appear. “What about any mention of pins and needles in his hands or feet?” I shake my head. “Problems with coordination and
balance?”
“He crashed his golf cart yesterday.”
The doctor lets out a thoughtful hmm as she taps her stylus on the tablet to note the detail. “Have his Alzheimer’s symptoms noticeably worsened recently?”
Blood threads across my tongue as I worry my bottom lip. I feel fucking terrible that I could have missed a constellation of symptoms that pointed to another health problem that could have been fixed. “It’s hard to say. He’s been losing things more often. He’s a bit paranoid that someone is breaking into his house to steal his belongings. But this kind of thing has been happening for a while.”
The doctor nods, giving me a polite smile. “I understand. We’re going to keep him in for a few days so we can get his B12 levels up and monitor for other symptoms. He’ll be transferred to the geriatric ward, where he’ll be much more comfortable. Once we get him stabilized—”
The doctor’s next words are lost to a sudden cacophony outside our curtained room—a crash of metal across the floor, slurred yelling, and raised voices. I share a worried look with the doctor and nurse, and then they’re rushing into the corridor as I follow on their heels.
A huge mammoth of a man is facing off against a doctor in a room across the hall, a stainless-steel cart lying on its side at the edge of the curtain, metal instruments scattered across the floor. Vomit glistens on his wiry ginger beard and stains the top of his white shirt. There’s an open gash through his brow, a suture needle dangling from a thread sewn into his flesh. The doctor who was treating him raises his hands in a placating gesture, and I can tell he’s nervous about being hemmed in between the gigantic man and a tangle of medical equipment and wires. “Mr. McMillan —”
“What is your fucking problem?” the man bellows, every word slurred and stretched. Two orderlies and the doctor and nurse who were attending to Arthur come closer, a halo of “calm down, sir” rising around him.
“Please sit down so Dr. Aspen can finish your stitches,” Dr. Reid says with calm authority. She’s only met with a tirade of drunken vitriol despite her polite request. “Sir, police will intervene if you do not calm down.”
“Stop telling me to fucking calm down.” The man rushes forward and tumbles over the cart, knocking over the pregnant nurse as he falls to the floor. She lands hard on her ass and lets out an agonized yelp. Both of the doctors immediately rush to her side while the orderlies keep the drunken man pinned to the floor. A police officer jogs in a moment later, and the doctors help the nurse up, her eyes shining with unshed tears, a protective hand cradled around her belly.
Fury rages through the caverns of my heart. My hands are folded into fists, fingernails pressing crescent imprints into my palms. When I look over my shoulder at Arthur, he’s awake, watching me with grim determination.
I turn back to the man subdued beneath the knee of the officer. The details of the room seem to sharpen as this unfamiliar man is handcuffed and dragged to his feet. I’m not sure if he really sees me when he meets my eyes across the corridor. But I see him.
When Dr. Reid returns, she only stays long enough to see if I have any questions. And after she departs, I turn all my attention to Arthur. I fill his paper cup with water and hold it to his lips. I unplug his phone from where I left it to charge and lay it beside his hand. He says he doesn’t need help as he shifts on his bed, but I still push his pillows around until they’re right where he wants them. He insists that I leave for my own benefit. I know he wants to rest, so I don’t linger, even though I feel like I should be doing more to make him comfortable. With a kiss to his cheek that he pretends to be disgruntled about even though he pats my hand, I leave him with the promise that I’ll return as soon as I can.
It’s nearly two in the morning when I get home, even later when I finally fall asleep. But I’m wide awake at six, ready for a full day of activity. I make coffee. Feed Morpheus. Check my garden for body part presents from my frenemy Nolan. There are none. I frown at my bird feeder, though I don’t know why I should feel a needling sense of disappointment at the absence of a decapitated head. Then I head to the main house and clean up the blood on the marble tile in the kitchen from Arthur’s fall.
As soon as I speed through these mundane chores, I’m enacting the plans that kept me tossing in my bed until two in the morning.
I pry the loose floorboard up in the guest room of the cottage, where I hid some of the reminders of my old life when I first arrived in Cape
Carnage.
This is a huge risk.
Sam was interested in my true identity and my disappearance four years ago when I first went missing, maybe just as much as he’s interested in the story of La Plume now. I was already trying to disappear before I made it to Maryland and fate intervened to give me the gift of Harper Starling. But I was careful to do everything I could not to leave a trail here. Though he’s given no indication that he’s figured out I wound up in Cape Carnage, he’s
already spying on the property where I live. It’s not a stretch that he could recognize me despite the darker hair and stolen name.
But this might also be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to kill the rumor that Arthur is La Plume and get Sam off the old man’s back for good. And after feeling so fucking helpless at the hospital, it’ll be good to take charge and do something productive to keep my promises. With a deep breath, I steel myself and commit to my plan.
I pick a few keepsakes from my hiding place that might be interesting to Sam but not conclusive proof that I was here. An incense holder shaped like a crescent moon. It lived on the wood-burning stove of the van I shared with Adam. A Higonokami pocketknife. I used that in a few videos we took when we explained to our followers how we set up camp at the various stops on our cross-country road trip. The unusual angle of the blade’s tip is easily recognizable to anyone as detail oriented as Sam Porter. A Texas Tech sweater that was Adam’s. I borrowed it so frequently that he finally declared it mine. I press my nose to the fibers and inhale. It doesn’t smell like us anymore. I sigh as I run my fingertips over the embroidered letters. I haven’t looked at these mementos in at least a couple of years, and there’s something reassuring about their presence in the house. But even in these last few days, I feel less attached to them. Maybe I’m not ready to give up some of the more personal relics that I keep hidden in this hole, but as I put the floorboard back, I think maybe I’m ready to let a few of them go.
I put the knife, sweater, and incense holder into a bag along with a few additional supplies, and then head to the garage next to Arthur’s house, borrowing his ancient Jaguar sedan to drive to the abandoned farmhouse off Clarke Road, twenty minutes outside town. I don’t even know whose land it is. I just know it’s not Arthur’s, and that’s the only thing that matters.
It takes me a moment of staring up at the decaying roof and graffitied siding to convince myself to follow the overgrown path that leads through the weedy lawn. Every step I take, the memory of vultures in a tree threatens to push me all the way back to the car. My palms sweat. My heart riots in my ears. This is my chance to protect Arthur, I tell myself over and over as I hurry over the threshold where the faded white door hangs from rusted hinges. It’s not the same house. I climb the rotting staircase to the
second level. It doesn’t smell the same. Doesn’t look the same. There’s not even a cellar.
I find a loose floorboard in a bedroom on the second story and ram it with my heel until it shatters. My pulse is still humming as I take a steadying breath, and with a silent goodbye, I shove my belongings beneath the shattered remains of the splintered wood. When I’ve snapped a quick photo with my phone, I head outside and take a last look at the house, then I drive back to town.
Once I’m parked a few blocks away from the Capeside Inn to keep Arthur’s distinctive vehicle out of sight, I head to my perch on the hill to hide among the rocks where I first watched Nolan as he left the inn for a run. His car isn’t in the parking lot now, and I try not to think about where he might have gone. “It doesn’t fucking matter what that asshole is up to,” I whisper to myself as I log in to my sock puppet account on the Sleuthseekers Discord server.
My eyes drift up to Sam’s rental car, and then to the empty spot next to it, the one that Nolan seems to prefer. Heat twists behind my navel, that ache from earlier throbbing between my legs. I wonder what would happen if I broke into Nolan’s room and waited in my lingerie for him to return.
Would he turn and walk away? Or would he pin me to the bed and fuck me so hard I see stars? What if I brought my Lelo Enigma dual vibrator? What if— “Oh my fucking God. Get it together, bitch. Stop thinking with your neglected vagina and think with your brain.”
With a shake of my head, I refocus on the device in my hands, tapping out a short private message to Sam. I include the location details of the farmhouse on Clarke Road, claiming I found the items when I was snooping around the abandoned house. Once the photos are sent, I wait.
It takes only a few moments before I receive a reply, and though he seems a little hesitant at first, the excitement is still palpable despite his short messages. In less than ten minutes, Sam and his drone operator are packing up his rental vehicle and leaving the Capeside Inn.
A dark smile creeps across my lips as I jog to Arthur’s car and set off for my next destination.
You’d think the next stage of the plan would be the hardest part. But really, it’s not as much of a challenge as it seems. Sheriff Yates never likes to keep anyone longer than he must, so it’s likely the charming Mr.
McMillan has already been released. And a guy like that is neither the Capeside Inn nor the bed-and-breakfast type, so chances are he’s staying in the shady Lionshead Motel just off the highway that leads into town. He’ll either be sleeping off his hangover, or he’ll be in Gus’s Tavern within walking distance of the Lionshead, drinking himself into his next oblivion.
I swing by the dumpster behind Milo’s Pizza first to grab a discarded box, then I start with the Lionshead, betting that it’s early enough in the day that he might not yet be ready for the pub. When I’m parked just out of sight of the motel, I take out my phone and select the contact for the reception desk.
“Lionshead, how can I help?” a man says after picking up on the second ring. I know by the timbre of his voice that it’s the young guy who started working there last season, and the wicked grin that’s been lodged on my face since I departed from the Capeside Inn grows a little wider. He’s the quiet type, a little shy. He’s just there to make enough to pay his rent. And he doesn’t give a shit about things like rules, or privacy.
“Hey, I’m the delivery driver for Milo’s Pizza,” I say, keeping my voice disaffected. “Some guy with the last name McMillan ordered delivery to the Lionshead, but Milo’s handwriting is shit and I can’t make out the room number. He’s not picking up the phone either. Can you tell me which room I’m supposed to go to so Milo doesn’t ride my ass for a late delivery?”
“Yeah, sure. Give me a second.” My smile could be seen from space. I reach toward the back seat and grab the empty pizza box along with a couple of choice goodies from my bag as the sound of keyboard tapping
fills the line. “Room three-twenty.”
“Thanks so much. You’re a lifesaver.”
“You got it.”
I disconnect the line and leave the car with the pizza box in hand, my blood fizzing with adrenaline. I’m a pizza delivery driver, I tell myself as I walk around the hedges that frame the Lionshead parking lot. There are a
few cars scattered in front of the motel rooms, but all the curtains are closed. There’s no one around.
My attention homes in on the door for Room 320.
I’m meant to be here. I’m just doing my job. And it’s funny how easily you can slip through society when you don’t just tell a lie, but you embrace it. If you make the effort to believe it, often everyone else does too.
I take a deep breath, dim the wicked edge in my smile to something less sinister, and knock three times on the door.
“Pizza delivery,” I call, my voice chipper. A disgruntled groan rumbles on the other side of the door. “Pepperoni with extra cheese? For … McMillan?”
A string of weary expletives and slippers dragging over tile grow louder as he approaches the door. My expression brightens as the dead bolt turns.
The door swings open and McMillan glares at me, his stained T-shirt and boxers barely covered by a fraying gray robe. “I didn’t order no fuckin’ pizza—”
I lift the pizza box enough that he can see the gun I hold beneath it, the silencer aimed at his navel. Surprise ignites in his bloodshot eyes.
“Come with me, Mr. McMillan,” I say, releasing the safety with a threatening click, “and I might just let you live.”
