CHART DATUM
Nolan
MAYBE I SHOULD BE WORRIED that we missed something. Terrified that Yates will finally figure out how to do his job and come knocking at our door. I should feel like running away from this place.
But I don’t. I feel alive.
It’s nearly three in the morning, and the adrenaline has been going all night. First it was the encounter with Sam. Then escaping from the distillery. Then racing to the Capeside Inn. We swept through Sam’s and Vinny’s rooms to either erase or steal anything we could find that appeared too connected to Harper and me, and then we took the murdered tourist and all the evidence to Lancaster Manor, hiding it all in the shed. Even after we managed to get the tourist’s stiffening body into the oversized chest freezer, we both felt far too energized for sleep.
So we decided on the next best thing.
Ropes cross Harper’s skin, each soft cord carefully and precisely laid against her flesh. One loop sits across her neck. Two intertwined cords drop down the center of her chest, ending just above her pelvis. Perpendicular lines fan from a series of knots. Above her breasts. Below them. Across her waist. Even down each thigh. An intricate network binds her arms behind her back. I took my time to tie each knot and position each rope exactly where I wanted. Over an hour later, her upper body is immobilized, and she’s completely at my mercy.
With the final knot tied, I savor my work, letting my gaze travel slowly over every inch of her flesh. I catalog every detail. The flush in her skin.
The goose bumps on her thighs. The shimmer of arousal gathered at her entrance. The way she shudders as I drag a finger across her pussy and to her clit. The sound of her moan, the desperate edge to it when I remove my hand.
“Open,” I say as I hold my finger between us. Her lips part, and I lay my finger on her tongue. “Suck it off.”
Her lips close and she sucks hard on my finger, my cock hardening as her tongue rolls across my skin. When I remove my finger from her mouth,
I trace it across her lips.
“Are you sure about this?” I ask.
Harper nods without hesitation. “I was pretty bad tonight.” She feigns a pout, batting her lashes at me. “First I removed a body from a crime scene, and then I killed a man. I deserve to be punished.”
“I thought the rumor was going to be that the first man got lost walking his dog at night and the other was a workplace accident,” I say, reaching over to her nightstand where my supplies are laid out. I clean my hands with a sterile wipe, and then pull a pair of latex gloves out of the box, sliding them on.
“You can’t believe everything you hear.”
I smirk, my pulse already climbing in anticipation. Pillows already piled behind me, I lie back on her bed, my upper body propped up on the mattress. “Then I guess you’d better get on my cock and receive your punishment.”
Harper’s eyes darken with need. She’s on her knees near the center of the bed, close to my lower legs. She rises higher so she can start crawling closer, her balance unsteady with her arms bound so tightly to her body. I make no effort to help her, content to watch her struggle. She keeps her eyes on my erection, managing to get her left knee over my thighs with a little effort, then shimmies her way up my body until her pussy is lined up with my cock. With a bit of maneuvering and still no assistance from me, she sinks herself onto my length, enveloping me with her slick heat.
“Ride it,” I command. And she does. With slow and careful motion, she rises and falls, rolling her hips as she bites her lip. When she starts to gather
a steady rhythm, I reach over for another sterile alcohol pad. “What’s your
safe word?”
“Ballmeat.”
“That sounds pretty bratty to me.”
“Just a little bit.”
“Hmm,” I say. She shudders as I swipe a cold towelette over her nipple until I’m satisfied her skin is clean. “Maybe I’ll let it slide this time since I’m about to cause you pain.”
I toss the pad aside, then pick up the forceps, clamping them around her left nipple to the sound of her sharp inhale. Then I grab the hollow needle.
“You ready?” I ask, keeping the sharpened surgical steel held between us
like a warning.
“Yes.”
“Then stay still.”
She rests on my length, her skin flushed pink with arousal and the anticipation of pain. God, she looks fucking perfect. Those cords around her skin. Her plump lip clutched between her teeth. Her nipple in my grasp and her pussy wrapped around my cock. I want to keep this image in my memory forever.
I rest the point of the needle against her flesh.
“Take a deep breath.”
She does as I ask. And then I push it in.
A delicious whimper. A sharp inhale. Her pussy tightens around my rock-hard erection. I slide the needle horizontally through her nipple until it pokes out the other side, and then I slowly pull it out, letting her embrace the pain she craves. When it’s free, I replace it with a threadless bar, pushing the beveled opal ends into each side.
“How did that feel?” I ask. But I already know. I can tell by the way she shudders. By the arousal that floods from her pussy.
“Good,” she whispers, breathless. “So fucking good.”
“Show me.”
She rides my cock, and I watch for a long moment, my eyes riveted to that metal bar through her nipple, her skin flushed. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything hotter. When I manage to tear my focus away, I reach for a
fresh alcohol pad and wipe down her other breast before opening a fresh needle.
“Stay still,” I command. Harper halts her motion, and I clamp the forceps over the nipple. “You liked that pain, didn’t you?”
She nods. “Yes.”
“Good.” I let the tip of the needle rest against her skin and she takes a shuddering breath. “Because I’m going to take my time.”
I keep the needle right where it is, the cold metal pressed against her, the clamp tight around her flesh. It’s only when a shiver of anticipation finally racks her body that I start to push it in. And I stay true to my word. I go slower than I need to, pushing it through her sensitive flesh as she whimpers. When I survey the subtle details of her face, it’s ecstasy I see in her darkened eyes and parted lips. It’s want, and need.
As soon as the needle is through the other side, I draw it back out just as slowly, and then replace it with a matching bar and opal balls. When it’s finished, I wipe away the droplets of blood and we stare at the beautiful result.
“That’s really fucking hot,” she says, her voice unsteady.
“You like it?”
“I fucking love it.”
“Then show me how grateful you are and ride my cock like you mean it.”
Hunger ignites in her eyes. I grip the knots at the center of her chest to steady her, and she fucking spears herself on my erection. I can’t take my eyes off her. Whether it’s the glistening arousal on my cock when she rises enough to slam down again or the shining gems that bracket her nipples, I feast on every inch of her that I see. I endlessly crave her, wanting more and more and more of her and never having enough.
“For a demon who murders innocent men and then acts like a brat, you fuck like a goddess. Maybe you deserve a little reward,” I say, reaching over for one last thing from the nightstand. Harper tracks the motion of my hand, never breaking her cadence as she rides my length. I grab the vibrator wand and turn it on, holding it up between us. “What do you think?”
“Yes,” she says on the heels of a moan.
“Yes what?”
She struggles to subdue a smile. “Yes, pretty please.”
“You’re being such a good girl. I like it, but I have a feeling I shouldn’t get used to it. Am I right?” My question earns me a coy little shrug, but her eyes don’t leave the buzzing toy.
“Didn’t think so. But I’m glad. I like taming you.” I lay the head of the toy just beneath the hollow between her collarbones, then drag it down, letting it pass over the cords as I make my way to her right breast. “I like punishing you as much as you like receiving it.”
I touch the vibration to the very tip of her nipple and she gasps. Then I let it graze the jeweled end of the bar and her pussy tightens around my cock, her silky arousal a flood of warmth.
“You’re soaking wet for that pain, aren’t you?” I say as I do the same to the bar on her other breast. She drops her head with a moan. She’s nearly mindless with pleasure. “You love when it hurts.”
“Yes,” she whispers. “But only with you.”
My breath catches. It feels like a quiet confession. Not just the words, but the way she watches me as though she’s just given me something precious. A secret. No matter what happens in the future, whether she one day casts me out or not, this is something she’ll only ever share with me.
I lower the wand. “Only with you,” I say, and then I press it to her clit.
I hold it against her sensitive bud of nerves with one hand while I grip her ropes with the other, helping her keep her balance as she gives me everything she has. Even when her head falls back and her eyes drift closed, she keeps a desperate rhythm with the kind of need that’s mindless. She glides on my cock and whimpers and moans until we both come undone, falling into the pleasure that consumes us. My grip tightens on the knots at her chest as I keep her locked down on me until every last pulse of my cock subsides, filling her with my cum, not taking the toy away until I’m sure her orgasm has fully passed. Even then, I keep her there, not letting her go until our ragged inhalations start to calm. And then I lift her away, slowly and carefully, and set her gently on the bed where I can safely remove the ropes.
I take my time to unwrap her before I carry her to the bath. This is how I worship her. With warm water and careful strokes of a soft cloth. With
candles and quiet words and delicate touches. I want to hurt her and I’m grateful she lets me, that she wants me to do it. But as much as we both crave the pain, I want to look after her too. Maybe more than I ever expected.
When I’m sure she’s all right, we climb into bed, and I pull her into my
arms. She falls asleep quickly.
But I don’t.
I quietly slip away before dawn, placing a short note on her pillow with the promise that I’ll return, just in case she has lingering doubts. Within twenty minutes, I’m standing on the granite ledge, looking toward the light that’s coloring the horizon before the sun crests the distant line between the
water and the sky.
And then I start my descent.
My boots sink into the sand as I step down from the last jagged edge of the cliff face and onto the thin strip of beach. It’s June 25. I’m standing at latitude 44.6692˚ N and longitude 67.2594˚ W. The spring tide is still slowly rolling back from the shore. I check my watch. 5:22 a.m. Only another ten minutes until it reaches its lowest point, but already I can see the very top of the van from Sam’s blown-up photograph breaking through the waves.
For whatever reason, it was vitally important to Sam to find this vehicle, which must only be visible during the spring low tides when the water is at its lowest. And I need to know why.
I set my bag down and take off my shoes. Within another few minutes, I’ve stripped off my clothes that cover the wetsuit I rented from Wallie’s Water Sports. I pull my flippers on, strapping a dive light to my wrist. And then I’m headed for the surf, settling my mask and snorkel over my face as I wade into the crashing white waves.
Even through the wetsuit, the cold sea is a shock. It soaks through the cuffs and neck, water filling the space between skin and neoprene with a cold film until my body starts to warm it. Treacherous rocks poke through the water. Seaweed rolls around me on every swirling wave. I keep my head up. Stay focused on that dented sheet of rusted metal. Try not to think about
the last time I dove into the sea, or what I nearly lost. I just keep kicking, fighting the pull of the current that tries to drag me down the shore.
I grab the sharp edge of the fiberglass where the window has long since shattered and fallen away, and I hold on.
Not much of the vehicle is visible above the waves, but even with what does sit above the surface, I can tell it’s the roof extender of a camper van.
The original color has bleached, the surface blistered and cracked. None of the windows have survived, leaving only the holes that once let light into the living space. I keep a hand gripped to the vehicle as I adjust my snorkel and sink beneath the waves, hoping to find a license plate. I’m not surprised to find nothing there.
When I’ve surfaced, I start making my way forward. The fiberglass flexes and groans against the corroded welds and screws that hold it to the steel frame of the vehicle as I pull myself along its length.
When I get to the front of the vehicle, I take a deep breath and dive.
Small fish scatter as I keep a hand on the missing driver’s side window and cast my light across the interior. Seaweed and barnacles and creatures I can’t name have already claimed much of the space. The metal frame is coated in layers of rust. The fabric of the seats has decayed, leaving behind only strips of upholstery. There’s a small kitchen area. A bench and table.
What looks like a cast iron wood stove, the thick glass cracked but still in place. There’s a bed toward the back of the van and a door just beyond it that might lead to a small toilet or storage. The space is covered in shades of green, filaments of life that seem so vivid in a place that feels like a tomb.
I rise to the surface, take a breath, and dive again.
This time, I head through the front window and enter the interior. Fish scatter. I scan the bottom surface of the van, looking for anything left behind. I even check the kitchen cupboards, one of the doors hanging on to the frame by a single rusted hinge. But there’s nothing.
With another trip to the surface, I dive again.
This time, I head toward the passenger side, staying close to the bottom of the window. I find the plate that’s fixed to the dashboard. I clear away the debris with my gloved thumb. I shine my light on the vehicle identification number. I can just make out the seventeen-digit alphanumeric code. I repeat
the number over and over until I’m sure I’ll remember it. I even dive more than once to check that I’ve gotten it correct. My heart is humming, even though I don’t know what it will tell me. Maybe nothing. But my instincts say otherwise.
With a final glance around the van’s interior, I rise and swim to shore.
I chant the VIN to myself as I strip off the wetsuit on the deserted thread of beach. I change quickly, shivering in the cold morning breeze. As soon as I’m changed, I enter the VIN into my phone, then hook the backpack over my shoulders and start climbing from the sand that will soon be consumed by the incoming tide.
I drive back to Cape Carnage, following the winding road that hugs the cliff. Before long, I pass the lighthouse, a handful of tourists already hiking up the steps that lead to the red-and-white beacon to the sea. I drive past houses that are now becoming familiar, with colorful planked siding and intricate trim. Instead of heading back to Harper’s cottage, I turn toward the Capeside Inn, rolling to a stop in my favorite spot in the parking lot that faces the ocean. When I turn off my car, I sit and watch in silence for a moment, thinking about that first day I looked across those sparkling waves and imagined all the righteous sins I’d waited so long to commit. I came here looking to dredge at least one long-hidden secret from the depths of Cape Carnage, but I caught more than I ever bargained for.
I grab my bag and make my way inside the inn, past the little dining area where patrons are smiling over French toast or chatting about the day’s plans as the happy aroma of maple syrup and fresh coffee wafts through the air. Maybe they don’t even know what’s happened over the last few days.
Maybe they do and just don’t care. They’re on holiday, after all. Somehow, it seems fitting that Cape Carnage continues on as though untroubled by the dark current snaking through its streets.
I make it to the corridor that leads to my room before Irene can spot me and those questions might end up out in the open.
When I get to my room, I drop my bag by the door and stride toward the small table next to the window with my laptop in hand. My leg bounces as it powers up. It goes through the slowest update of its entire fucking
electronic life, because of course it would pick this exact moment. By the time I’m finally able to log in, I’m nearly vibrating with impatience.
I google a VIN lookup service and enter the code for the vehicle, followed by my credit card information for a full report. My finger hesitates for a beat before I hit the return button. A report comes up with eight previous unnamed owners, the location of the title transfer, and the service history for a 1985 Chevy G20 camper van. The last change of ownership was five years ago, a private sale in Lubbock, Texas.
I frown at the screen. That vehicle has come a long way.
Though I might have a location and date of sale for what is a rather uncommon vehicle, that’s still not going to tell me who the last owner was.
I run my fingers across my lips, thinking about the way Harper bites her own flesh when she’s nervous or deep in thought. If Sam had an interest in this particular Chevy G20 … maybe he’s said so.
The Sleuthseekers have accounts on a few social media sites, and though I check through them, I find nothing related to the van. What they post publicly is kept pretty vague. But they must have a place where they speak more openly with one another. Where they share secrets and theories.
With a little more hunting, I find mention of a Discord server.
I create a new account and try to tamp down the disappointment when I have to answer a number of questions and wait for an admin to approve my request to join the Sleuthseekers server. Who knows how long that will take. With a groan, I rise and put the kettle on, a text from Harper coming through on my phone as I’m waiting for the water to boil.
You’ll probably be happy to know that I’m thinking of you literally every time I move.
I smirk, starting to type a reply when an image quickly follows her message. It’s a photo of her naked upper body, the bars through her nipples gleaming.
I think I’m obsessed.
My cock hardens and I shift, trying to relieve the sudden ache of need.
You’re trying to torture me, aren’t you?
Absolutely. One thousand percent YES.
They’re a little tender but it looks pretty hot, don’t you think?
If they’re sore, maybe I should come and take a closer look.
I’m free after lunch. 1pm?
I check my watch. It’s not quite eight in the morning. The wait is going to be fucking agonizing.
12:30?
You know, I think I’m busy at 1pm, actually. How about 3pm?
I drag a hand down my face, ready to claw my skin off. She’s a fucking monster. And to drive the point home, she sends through two more photos of her breasts, one from the side and another a close-up of one nipple.
Okay okay okay. 1pm.
Fucking brat.
The kettle whistles and I pocket my phone. As I’m pouring the water, a notification comes through on my laptop. My heart lurches, a hit of adrenaline flooding its chambers. Tea in hand, I head to the table and wake the screen to find my request approved.
With a grim smile, I start exploring the information on the server.
First, I start with Sam’s recent posts. He’s been teasing his trip to Cape Carnage, posting the occasional image of the town or his film equipment or shots of him and Vinny as they focus on their work. I come to learn that Vinny is a trusted friend to Sam in his escapades to unearth the town’s secrets. Much of the recent discourse centers on La Plume and the interviews Sam has conducted to confirm his suspicions that Arthur is the infamous serial killer. Nothing of the latest posts tells me about the Chevy
van.
So I start trawling the archives.
Once I search for a Chevy G20, a new picture starts to emerge.
The earliest posts referencing the G20 are from three years ago, mentions of a van that had been refurbished before setting out on a road trip across the southern states, starting in Texas. “AC bought the G20 in September, and they spent the winter overhauling it,” one of the posts says, along with a photo of the old van that must have come from the used car dealership’s listing. I check the VIN report, and it lists a transfer of ownership in September six years ago. There are some questions in response to the post. And then, “His parents gave it to AB the October after Mead.”
I have no idea what that means, but the dates line up with the VIN report.
It’s useless trying to search up “AB” or “AC.” I blow out a long breath, readying myself to start delving into the bigger picture to understand the context in which the van occurs. Just as I’m about to start trawling through the posts, a new message comes through on the general chat, and I click on it.
Anybody hear from Sam or Vinny? it reads.
A few replies confirm that no one has heard from either Sam or Vinny yet. Sam’s absence is no surprise to me, of course, but it’s odd that Vinny hasn’t checked in with the group if that’s what they would expect. Maybe Harper hit him harder than she thought and he’s spent the night in the hospital.
Sam told me in confidence a couple of weeks ago that he was going to be looking for something at spring tide, which was this morning sometime, a user called KnightofTruth replies. He might still be out on the water. I’ll check in with his girlfriend and report back.
This message generates some chatter in the group, an atmosphere of excitement. Another user asks a question that strikes my interest. Something to do with autumn?
I don’t know what could be happening in the autumn here. Aside from the Taste of Terror festival near the end of summer, there’s not much planned in the fall when the coastal weather starts to turn. If there’s something coming up that Sam would take an interest in, it’s a mystery to me.
I frown at the screen and start a new search for autumn.
But what I find is not at all what I expected.
There are numerous results for “autumn,” some as recent as yesterday, some dating back to four years ago. But it’s not a season. It’s a person.
Autumn Bower. The name brings up a vague recollection of news stories and speculation. She was fodder for the press. A popular influencer in her niche who survived a prolific serial killer, what could be a more enticing story than that? She was a seemingly unassuming woman who somehow escaped from the cellar of a house of horrors and walked seven miles to the nearest town barefoot in nothing but a fucking plaid shirt, leaving the remains of her slain boyfriend and his murderer burned in her wake.
And then, several months later, she just … disappeared.
I keep scrolling through entries, so many of them from shortly after her mysterious disappearance focused on trying to track her down. Autumn’s last video, one entry says, with a YouTube link. I click on it.
And smiling back at me is Harper Starling.
“Hi,” she says, with a wave to the camera. “I’m Autumn, and welcome to Autumn and Adam’s Vanventures with Goonie, our 1985 Chevy G20 camper van conversion. Now that we’ve been living in Goonie for a month, we have a better idea of what we’ve done well in our rebuild and what we’ll probably change. Today I’m going to show you my top-five favorite things in the van so far. Come on in …”
The rest of her words are lost to the roaring heartbeats in my ears. I’m staring at Harper. But I’m not. She seems so different. And it’s not just the long blond hair or the lighter eyebrows or the sun-kissed glow. It’s not a Texas accent I can hear in her voice, one I’ve never heard when she speaks.
It’s the ease in her. The openness. It’s her welcoming smile, her enthusiasm.
She shows the interior of the van, from the kitchen to the little wood stove, the layout identical to the van that lies at the bottom of the sea. I start the video again and pause it when her face is centered in the shot, and then I bring up my pictures of Harper Starling from before the accident, placing them side by side on the screen. The resemblance is there. They must be about the same age. Their face shape is similar. Even the width of their noses and the angle of their jaws. They look like they could be sisters if their hair color was different. But they are not the same woman.
I close my eyes and try to force a memory that refuses to surface. When I look back at the glimpse of the driver of the car that hit Billy and me, it’s the woman I know that I see behind the wheel. But is it? When I recall the feeling of the asphalt against my face, it’s her voice I hear arguing with the men whose souls I’ve already claimed. But can I be sure?
What if my memory is wrong?
It was only a flash of a moment, her features illuminated by the dashboard lights in the instant before the crash. Could I have warped this memory with my hatred until it matched what I wanted to see and hear?
I navigate to the channel page and click on the introductory video.
It’s her again, this time with a man her age, his arm around her shoulders. He has a surfer vibe: a wide, bright smile and a mop of unruly blond hair. He’s the kind of guy everyone loves. It bleeds right through the screen. There are photos and video shots of them working on the van, with a voice-over. “I’m Adam Cunningham,” he says.
“And I’m Autumn Bower,” she chimes in.
“And welcome to Autumn and Adam’s Vanventures …”
I press a shaking finger to the keyboard and pause the video. And then I stand so quickly that I knock the table, rattling my laptop and cup and saucer with a shock of sound that just barely penetrates the thoughts that are clicking together like magnets snapping into place. I rush to my jacket where I tossed it over my backpack and take out the silver bracelet I put there the day the raven dropped it in the sink.
A²BC.
Autumn Bower. Adam Cunningham.
I slowly sit on the edge of the bed.
She’s not the woman who struck me and left me for dead.
She’s Autumn Bower.
The hint of blond roots I noticed in her hair just the other day. The way she feared Sam as though she knew exactly what he could do to her life.
Tears blur the metal links laid across my open palms.
All the fucking horrible things I spent years wanting to do to her. The way I’ve hated her. The way I’ve treated her. Until only recently, I’ve always approached her with the expectation that she was the one who owed
me. And every harsh word, every glare, every threat and vow to wreak havoc upon her, she took it all.
Somehow, she made her way here. And in the process, though I have no recollection of when or how, we crossed paths. She must have stolen Harper Starling’s identity, maybe in the hopes of evading a past that refused to let her have what she’d fought for and earned. A life.
And I almost took that from her. I came here to destroy her. But she isn’t even the woman I was seeking, and yet she never said a word. … or did she?
I’m not who you think I am, she’d said, defiance vibrantly gleaming in her silver eyes. And I didn’t listen, not really. I didn’t hear what she was trying to say.
She has survived loss. Captivity. Horror and death. And she was ready to
survive me.
Me.
I’ve fallen in love with a phantom. A woman I hardly know. One who never told me the truth. She’ll let me pierce her skin and pledge my loyalty with the pain she craves, but she won’t tell me her fucking name.
What happened to the actual Harper Starling? And how the hell did Autumn take her identity and wind up here?
I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel in this squall that crashes through the cavity of my chest. The guilt and shame for how I treated her and what I nearly did. Betrayal and anger that she never told me who she really was, even after I promised I was never going to give her up. Worry and hope. Longing and sorrow and regret. With a heavy sigh, I curl my fist around the bracelet and hang my head, trying to figure my way out of this storm. But I don’t see a clear path through it.
A notification dings from my computer. Then another. And another. My brow furrows, and I push myself off the bed, returning to the table. When I click on the tab for the Discord server, KnightofTruth has sent a message to the chat.
Sleuthseekers, it’s time to fucking mobilize.
A chill dances through my flesh. Goose bumps rise on my arms. A slew of messages comes through from other users in the server. Questions.
Excitement. Guesses and theories.
I type out a question of my own: Mobilize for what?
KnightofTruth sends a reply to my query that sets off another storm of
questions.
War.
Anxiety bleeds through the chat. The same question echoes in different iterations. Why?
Maybe some instinct within me expects KnightofTruth’s reply, at least in part. But it still hits me like the car that started this tempest four years ago.
An unstoppable impact that slams right into my chest. It crushes muscle and bone, sucking the air from my lungs.
Sam and Vinny are both dead, KnightofTruth says. It’s time to blow this
case wide open.
We’re going to Cape Carnage.
