FOUL GROUND
Nolan
IT’S EARLY EVENING, THE SUN still hidden behind a thick gray veil when I walk to Harper’s cottage. I hear the electric hedge trimmer in the distance as I head up the flagstone walk and take the path that hugs the cottage and leads to the back garden. The sound grows louder as I cross the patio.
Christ, I hope she’s not slicing up another tourist to put through her woodchipper—though something about that idea fills me with unexpected excitement. I’m sure she’d have a good reason and a delightfully unhinged plan. I think.
I’m just about to pass through the garden gate when Arthur appears before me, a startling specter in his three-piece suit and polished shoes with a bespoke cane. His shock of white hair is perfectly coiffed, his bushy brows lowered as he regards me.
“Hello, Mr. Lancaster. You startled me,” I say, opening the gate for him as he’s clearly determined to pass through it.
“You’re the man from the theater,” Arthur says, his sharp eyes slicing across my face.
“That’s right. Nolan Rhodes, sir.” I extend a hand and his expression softens. He gives me a slight nod and leans his weight on his cane as he accepts the handshake. “Is Harper around?”
“Yes. She’s working on the topiaries.”
“How’s that going?”
“Horribly. The moose is an atrocity.”
“I expected as much.”
Arthur gives me a grunt and I tip my head to him, starting to walk in the direction of the sound. His sudden grip on my wrist stops me. “Before you move along, I wonder if you wouldn’t mind doing me a favor?” he asks.
“Certainly. What do you need?”
Arthur doesn’t let go of my arm, instead using it to prompt me back in the direction of Harper’s house. “I’m looking for my bag that Harper was keeping for me. She said I could retrieve it from the cottage, but it might be upstairs and I have difficulty with the staircase. I’m old, you see.”
I chuckle at his dry wit. “No problem,” I say as we make our way toward the cottage with more vigor than I expected from my elderly companion.
“What does it look like?”
“Black leather. Looks somewhat like an old doctor’s bag. It has two robins embossed on the side, between the handles.”
“Do you remember where it is, exactly?”
“I … I don’t recall. The guest room, possibly.”
“Okay. I’ll have a look.” I help him lower to a seat at the patio table, then I head into the unlocked back door of the cottage. The scent of palo santo lingers in the air. The interior is clean and unfussy, just like it always is. As I’m heading toward the staircase, I notice one of the white pawns has been moved on the chessboard. It’s jumped ahead two spaces, waiting for an unseen opponent to play.
I take the stairs by twos, reluctant to leave Arthur waiting in the cooling air and growing fog. I’ve seen the guest room before, but this is the first time I’ve been inside. It’s a simple layout, just a bed and a small dresser, a worn desk with some sewing supplies and papers resting beneath a window.
I check the closet first, and I find the bag almost immediately beneath the folded blankets and winter clothes, taking it downstairs and out the back to where Arthur waits at the table, fidgeting with his crooked fingers. As soon as he sees it in my hands, his expression brightens, and he rises to his feet.
“Good lad,” he says, nearly yanking the bag out of my hand when I offer it. “Thank you. You saved my poor knees. I’m old, you see.”
“Yes, I think you might have mentioned that.”
“Your short-term memory is the pits when you’re so old your bones are crumbling to dust.” He waves me off as I offer an arm with a chuckle. I’d
assumed he wanted to go back to the house, but instead he heads toward the path that leads to the front of the cottage.
“Where are you going?” I call after him.
“Things to attend to, my boy. Many thanks for your assistance.” Arthur doesn’t turn as he raises his cane in a wave, then disappears around the side of the cottage, the bag gripped tight in his free hand. I wait until the metronomic cadence of his cane tapping the flagstones disappears. Once I’m reasonably sure he’s successfully made it safely off the property, I go on the hunt for Harper, finding her near the main driveway to the house.
She doesn’t realize I’m close by, so I take a moment to just watch her.
She’s partway up a stepladder, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, a pair of safety goggles over her eyes. Her favorite Welcome to Cape Carnage shirt and black overalls are covered in leafy debris. She’s wielding an orange hedge trimmer with great concentration but very little skill. If this bush was ever meant to be a moose, I can’t see it. It looks more like an abstract, rabid dog. But she doesn’t give up. Not even when she accidentally cuts off half its head.
It takes me a moment to realize I’m smiling.
I still don’t understand how or when this happened. Weeks ago, I’d have given anything to get this close and use her own tool as a weapon against her. And now I’m standing here with a grin, admiring her determination.
She’s nothing like what I expected. I don’t see a monster when I look at her now. I see someone so loyal that I know she’ll stay here until dark if she has to, trying to get it right for Arthur. I see someone who is resilient. Someone who is fierce when she needs to be, but kind when it’s deserved. Maybe, in my case, even when it’s not. And I can’t get enough of her, even if it just means watching from a distance.
When she gives up her efforts long enough to pause for a vicious cough, one that still plagues her after the near-drowning a few days ago, I finally approach.
Though it takes a moment to convince her to relinquish the trimmer and call it a day, she does. I take her back to the cottage. Make us dinner as she has a shower. I grab her as soon as she’s out of the bathroom and haul her over my shoulder to the sound of her laughing shriek. I deposit her on the
couch and spread her legs wide and eat her pussy until she’s screaming my name. Then I flip her over and fuck her hard, just the way she likes. When I twist my fist in her hair and tug, she moans. When I slap her ass, she cries out for more. When I slide a hand across her throat and squeeze, her pussy tightens around my cock and she comes again, pulling me into oblivion with her as I fill her until I have nothing left to give.
I don’t tell her, but I want to do this every day. Not just fuck her until she’s boneless and trembling against me. It’s everything else too. Taking care of her afterward. Reheating our cooling pasta. Sitting across from each other. Talking. Learning the things she likes. Things she worries about. I find myself wondering how I could take some of the other burdens she carries now that there are only four bodies left to find. We’ll be done in a matter of days, and then what happens? She could clearly use help, whether it’s with Arthur or navigating the tourist season or even those fucking topiaries. But I don’t live even remotely close to Carnage. My life in Tennessee seems so distant from my reality these past few weeks. And every time I try to remind myself that my stay here is only temporary, I find I only push those thoughts away. There are more important things to focus on right now, I tell myself. You can worry about home later.
But what if I still don’t want to worry about home when everything else passes? I already told Harper that I’m not letting her get away from me.
And I meant it. But what does that look like? How does that work? Is it something she even thinks about?
I’m still tossing these questions around after dinner. We’re biding our time until evening deepens to night, at which point I’ll head back to the inn to retrieve the car for our next escapade at the Ballantyne River. At least, that’s the plan until a call comes through on Harper’s phone.
“Hey, Lukas,” she says, her tone nonchalant as she rises from our game of cribbage to put the kettle on for a fresh pot of tea. “What’s up?”
“Have you talked to Arthur?” he says over the speaker. I can detect the tone of concern, though he tries to hide it. And I can see in her face that she’s worried, too.
“A few hours ago, yeah. Maybe about seven o’clock. Why?”
“I texted him a few times to check in, but he hasn’t responded. He didn’t pick up when I called, either. Would you mind checking the house? I’m worried he had another fall.”
Harper is already grabbing her jacket and sliding her work boots on when she gives him a quick reply and hangs up. And I’m right on her heels.
“This isn’t like him,” she says as she marches through the back garden.
A heavy fog has descended upon us, and I can’t even see the main house through the thick, moonlit mist. There are no lights on inside to guide us either.
“Maybe he got tied up with something in town.”
Harper looks up at me with a raised brow. “What do you mean?”
Unease trickles through my veins. I swallow, laying a hand on Harper’s arm to stop her.
I already know it. I’ve made a fucking colossal mistake.
“I saw him when I first arrived,” I say. “He said you told him to grab his
bag from the cottage—”
“No—”
“And he asked if I could find it upstairs for him—”
“Oh no no no—”
“So … I gave it to him. And then he said he had ‘things to attend to.’”
“Nolan,” she shrieks, whacking my arm with a thud. “That’s his fucking murder bag. He hates going into the cottage, and he played you like an amateur to get it.”
I groan, swiping a hand down my face. Though I look back toward the cottage simply because that’s the last place I saw him, I have no fucking clue where to start. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”
“You can’t believe anything he says. Seriously. Not anything.”
“I just didn’t expect it. He kept telling me he’s an ‘old man’—”
“I know,” she says, exasperation heavy in her voice. “He loves to tell people that. ‘I’m so old, help an old man pick up his cane, would you, dear?’—and then bam. He knifes you in the fucking throat.” Harper shoots me a glare before whipping her phone from her jacket pocket. Her thumbs tap furiously over the screen. “Don’t mistake advanced age for weakness.
Arthur has spent decades refining his craft. If anything, his age has worked to his advantage.”
Though I’m irritated at myself and worried for Harper, I’m kind of impressed. “I’m sorry, Harper. Truly. I won’t make that mistake again.”
The only acknowledgment she gives me is a worried flick of her eyes as she chews on her bottom lip. She frowns at the screen, and a heartbeat later her expression clears, leaving only determination behind. “He’s at the cemetery. Take these.” Harper thrusts her keys in my direction. “The Jag is parked in the garage. Bring it down the main driveway and stop at the gate.
I just have to grab something from my place and I’ll meet you there.”
With a nod, she turns and runs toward the cottage, and I watch her for just a beat before I pivot in the opposite direction and run for the house. The old sedan rumbles to life and I bring it down the drive, stopping where Harper instructed. A moment later, she appears, running from the back of the cottage with a backpack slung over her shoulders. She shrugs it off as she gets close to the car, but it’s not until she’s inside that I recognize it for
what it is.
My backpack.
“I guess we’re all about the murder bags today,” she says quietly, passing it over the center console to me. I’m so stunned that it takes me a moment to accept it. “Your book is inside too. Everything is there.” She lifts one shoulder. “But I won’t be offended if you want to check.”
I set it on my lap, my eyes not leaving hers. I should be celebrating. I should feel relieved. Maybe I should even feel ready for the revenge I came for. But I don’t. It’s as though everything has washed away, leaving only the core of my obsession behind. Harper was always at its center. But what she means to me has transformed, and now all I feel is fear for what this could mean. “Why?”
She tries to shrug again, but it comes off jerky and nervous. “Just in case.”
“Just in case of what?” That anxiety is swirling now, a squall behind my sternum. “Just in case of Sam? Or something else?”
“I don’t know. I just …” She shakes her head, turning her attention to her hands as they fidget in her lap. “I just don’t want you to be pulled into it if
things come down on Arthur and me.” She tries to smile, but it seems brittle around the edges. “I’ve done enough damage already, don’t you think?”
I don’t answer that. I can’t. I don’t know how the accident happened or why she chose to leave Billy and me on the road. Maybe she has reasons I don’t understand. And I can’t quantify how much damage she’s done, nor how much I’ve grown because of her, even when I didn’t want to. How can I possibly measure loss against love? The grief I’ve endured against the life I’ve gained? I can’t change the past. But hasn’t she given me purpose in its aftermath?
I set the bag in the footwell behind her, and then I grasp her chin, staring into her shining eyes so she knows I mean it when I say, “Thank you, Harper.”
With a swift and gentle kiss to her lips, I focus on the fog ahead, putting the car in drive.
The roads are empty given the hour and poor weather. The air feels thick with tension between us, Harper relaying directions before slipping back into contemplative silence. When we arrive at the cemetery, the iron gate that bars entry to the twisting road at night is ajar, enough for someone to walk through, a heavy padlock hanging open on the chain.
“Any idea what he’s doing at the graveyard?”
Harper expels a long breath. “Hopefully having a peaceful moment of reflection and solitude.” I glance in her direction and she gives me a flat look in reply. “Considering he has the murder bag, I seriously doubt it’s anything good. I’ll get the gate.”
She steps out of the car and pushes it wide enough for me to drive through, and I wait on the other side as she shuts it. As she slides back into her seat, I hear the yapping bark of a small dog in the distance ahead.
“Looks like he’s probably at the Lancaster family plot,” Harper says, zooming in on the map on her screen to pinpoint the location of Arthur’s phone. She pockets the device and points to the dark road that twists up a hill of graves. “Up there.”
I roll forward, a slow and careful procession through the mist. When we’re nearly at the top of the hill, a small dog with bows at its ears bounds across our path, a leash trailing behind it.
“That’s probably not good,” I say, lurching to a stop.
“No. Probably not.”
I throw the car into park and turn it off, leaving the keys in the ignition.
We get out and quietly push the doors closed, though it would be hard to hear us over the insistent bark of the tiny canine bounding around my legs. I pick it up and it settles, and we exchange a grim look before Harper turns toward a section of the cemetery bordered by a low fence with an open gate that leads to the headstones just visible through the thick fog. At first, it seems still. Empty. And then there’s a moan.
We rush toward the gate.
Two men lie supine among the graves. But only one of them moves.
Harper drops to her knees at Arthur’s side, checking his cheek where the skin is split and bleeding. “Arthur, oh my God, are you all right?” He groans and tries to sit up, but doesn’t answer. I set the dog down and check the other man’s pulse, but I can already tell by his open, unseeing eyes and his cool skin that there’s no hope of resuscitating him.
Arthur’s black bag is next to him, the zipper open, a syringe lying nearby. I pick up one of several vials strewn across the grass next to it.
Midazolam, this one says beneath a bloody fingerprint. A powerful, fast- acting sedative. One that can kill.
I shift my attention to Arthur, who is clearly injured and disoriented.
Questions swirl through my mind. How the hell did this all happen? And why did he want to kill this man? But judging by Arthur’s groans and anxious mumbling, I’m not sure the answers are going to be easy to find.
I set the vial down and move to Arthur’s side. We get him to his feet, and when I’m sure he won’t fall over, I pass his cane to him.
“Are you okay?” Harper asks, grasping his trembling shoulders, her eyes shifting between his. A whimper escapes his lips. He seems deeply distressed, his face twisted in pain. “What happened?”
“Poppy.” Arthur’s bloodstained fingers trail across Harper’s cheek, his whisper a plume of fog in the cooling night. “I thought you were gone.”
Harper’s focus cuts to mine for only an instant, but that brief glance is laced with sorrow. She hides her pain with a weak smile when she returns
her attention to Arthur. “I’m right here,” she says, catching Arthur’s hand to whisper a kiss across his knuckles. “Everything is going to be okay.”
Her words are sweet but fragile, like blossoms of color beneath the snow.
But as much as Arthur wants to hold on to Harper’s promises, the confusion is evident in his cloudy eyes. It surfaces in the way his gaze shifts over her face, in the fear and distrust harrowed in the patchwork of wrinkles that net across his skin.
“But I saw you. In the cottage.” His voice wavers, his hand trembling on his cane. He tries to pull away from her and pace in agitation but finds it too difficult over the uneven ground. “There was so much blood.”
“Just a nightmare.”
“He wrote in your skin—”
“It’s all okay.”
Arthur shakes his head, tears welling in his eyes. “You were gone. My Poppy. I saw you.”
“Shh,” Harper whispers as Arthur repeats his words, the frustration climbing in his voice, making each note of distress grow louder. He runs a hand across his head as though trying to force the broken fragments of his thoughts into a picture he can recognize. “I can take you home now.”
“Who are you?”
Harper grips his hand in both of hers, her eyes shimmering in the moonlight. “I’m Harper. I’m your friend.”
“Where’s Poppy?” Arthur’s eyes cut to me as I lay my palm on Harper’s back, where the muscles are tense with the effort to hold back her emotion.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Nolan.” I reach out a hand in greeting and he eyes it with suspicion.
“I think we’ve met once before, but you might not remember. It was a while ago. Nice to see you again, Mr. Lancaster.”
Arthur’s confusion deepens, but the distraction of my words seems to set him on a new path, just like I’d hoped. He shifts his cane to his left hand and takes my handshake with surprising strength.
“Harper came to take you home to Lancaster Manor. In the morning, she can show you the topiaries.”
“Yeah, we have a gardening competition to win, don’t we, Arthur?” she says, her tone infused with forced brightness. Every word feels ready to break open, to split apart and reveal the depth of her heartache. Her eyes quickly cut to the body beside her before she forces a smile. “We don’t want to lose to Sarah Winkle. It was pretty close last year.”
Arthur’s jaw works as he chews through his thoughts, his white brows lowering as a look of wrath descends on his face. “Sarah Winkle. That insipid, talentless busybody.”
Harper breathes a laugh, but sniffles as she nods. Though she tries to be discreet as she swipes the edge of her finger beneath her lashes, grief and worry still shine in her eyes. “Yeah. She’s a hack. We’d better be sure you like the moose, it’s been giving me some trouble. Maybe you can give me some pointers.”
“A moose, yes.” Though he looks tired, Arthur seems intrigued by the idea. The light that was absent from his eyes returns just a little, like a dim spark among ashes. For a long moment, he stares at the nearest gravestone, still chewing at his bottom lip just the same way Harper does when she’s lost in thought. And watching her watch him, I can understand. It’s not just a friendship. It’s a kinship.
Harper takes a step closer, looping Arthur’s hand over her arm. “I can take you home now. We can get you cleaned up. I’ll polish up those Christina Riccis for you. Looks like you got a little blood on them.”
“Stefano Riccis, you recalcitrant clown.”
“My bad. So, do you want to tell me what happened?”
“That man,” he says as she starts leading him toward the car. “The man with the hideous little dog. He hit me.”
“I can see that. You’re a little cut up.”
“I’m an old man, Harper. He hit an elderly man. Uncouth fiend, coming into our town to let his witless canine defecate everywhere and then strike the elderly of Cape Carnage. I despise him.”
“Well, he deserved what he got,” Harper says, letting a weighted beat of silence pass between them. “He did deserve it … right …?”
“Yes. Of course he did. Violent, terrible little man.”
I gather up the syringe and the scattered vials, placing them in Arthur’s bag before I follow. I slide the bag behind the driver’s seat. As soon as I’m done, I return to the body so I don’t risk further agitating Arthur with my presence. The rest of their conversation only comes in bits and pieces as Harper settles Arthur into the passenger seat, bringing a blanket from the trunk to lay over his lap before helping him with the seat belt. When she seems sure he’s comfortable, she closes the door and strides back to the family plot, returning to face me where I stand next to the cooling corpse.
“Oh my God, this is bad,” she says, her voice hushed and strained as she drags her hands down her face. “It’s so super bad. Arthur might as well have carved his name right into the dude’s forehead. I can actually see the shape of his fucking cane handle.”
We both lean a little closer to the body. Sure enough, the outline of the distinctive curved handle and wolf’s head embellishment of Arthur’s cane is imprinted right there on his skin.
“Christ,” I hiss on a long exhale as we both straighten. “What do we do with the dog?”
Harper frowns, then bends to pick it up. “I’ll take”—she reads the dog’s name tag, then rolls her eyes—“Killer Queenie—Jesus fucking Christ, that’s the worst—back to Maria’s house. That’s where the guy was staying.
If I leave the gate open a bit, his wife will probably figure Queenie here made her way home on her own. Hopefully …” She shifts her attention toward the car and then to the body before returning her gaze to me. “Are you sure about this?”
“Yeah, absolutely. Take Arthur home and get him settled, and I’ll be back as soon as I can. I’ll keep you posted.” Harper nods once, but she doesn’t move, not even when I come closer. “Be careful,” I say, staring down at her.
She gives me a weak smile. I run my hand over her hair and press a kiss to her forehead before I let her go. “Everything will be fine.”
With another slight nod, she takes a step back, and another, and then
finally she turns and walks away.
As soon as she’s gone, I run.
I leave the main cemetery gate ajar just enough that I hope it will remain unnoticed, but will be quick for me to open when I return with my vehicle.
And then I race to the inn as fast as my body will let me.
By the time I reach my room, my knee is throbbing and my shirt is sticking to my skin, dampened with sweat. I don’t just grab the things I think I’ll need to get rid of the unknown man. I grab everything. I’d already gotten rid of most of the food in the fridge and packed some of my bags in the process of working my way toward this decision. But now I know.
I could run. I could disappear in the fog and never think of Cape Carnage
again.
But I will not leave Harper.
Not with Sam closing in. Not with Arthur causing chaos. She can’t do this on her own. Whether she likes it or not, I’m staying at her place. I’ll sleep on the fucking floor if I have to. If tonight has proven anything, it’s that she is not safe. Even Arthur is becoming a threat to her well-being. And I will not let her endure this alone.
I rush with my suitcases through the empty lobby, placing them in my rental car before I head back to my room for my final two bags, the ones that are stocked with our nightly supplies—rope and collapsible shovels, duct tape and bug spray, the camp stove and hot chocolate. With a bag in each hand, I jog back to my vehicle and start loading them into the back, my thoughts consumed by Harper and everything I have to do at the cemetery to get rid of the body and ensure her secrets stay hidden.
“Well, I’ll say,” I hear Sam’s voice from behind me. “That looks like a serial killer kit if I ever saw one.”
I turn slowly, coming face-to-face with the muzzle of a gun.
“Evening, Sam. That’s an aggressive way to say hello.” I slowly start to raise my hands. When they’re at chest height, I strike out with my right hand, hoping to snatch the gun from his hand.
But Sam is faster than I expected.
With a kick I don’t even see coming, he nails my left knee with a vicious strike. I go down hard on the asphalt.
“Oops. That wouldn’t be your bad leg, would it?”
Deep breaths shudder through my lungs. I struggle to focus on the asphalt beneath my palms. It’s not just the agonizing burn in my knee. It’s
not the wound that’s never fully healed that darkens the edges of my vision.
It’s the rage. Sam knows my weaknesses and he’s willing to strike them.
A terrible question blares through my thoughts like an alarm: How many weaknesses is he ready to exploit?
Though it takes me a moment, I force myself through the searing pain.
With a hand braced to the bumper, I rise and face Sam once more.
“I started looking into you,” Sam says. His gun is steady. His eyes determined. A little smile of triumph lifts one corner of his lips. “The more I started digging, the more interesting things I started to find.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His smile grows darker. More boastful. He shifts his weight, the camera bag on his hip following the motion. “I’m sure you don’t. But you’re going to get into your car and drive exactly where I tell you to go. And then we’ll have a talk and see if I can jog your memory.”
I take a step closer, and he takes one back, firming his grip on his weapon. “And if I don’t?” I ask.
“Well, I guess I shoot you. It would probably be pretty believable that I acted in self-defense, all things considered. Especially since Sheriff Yates isn’t known for his investigative skills, you know? So whether you live or die is up to you. But either way, if you don’t come with me, I’ll hand everything I have straight to the FBI. I’ll expose everything I know about you,” he says as his thumb shifts to release the safety from the gun. “And Harper Starling.”
