TRACES
Nolan
THERE’S SOMETHING KIND OF ENDEARING about this town, even in the fog and the misty rain. The Victorian houses of mismatched bright colors. The endless dark water and the waves that crash against the cliffs. The way the people who live here stop to talk to their neighbors over freshly painted fences. They wave to one another as they drive down streets lined by antique gas lamps and banners that flap in the never-ending breeze. But to the tourists, the locals are friendly yet reserved, protecting the true Carnage from visitors like me. They ask where I’m from. How long I’m here. What I do for a living. What I’ve come to see. But they won’t remember my answers. Most of my responses aren’t truthful anyway.
The run takes its toll on my body, the hills steep and unforgiving, the chill of the mist seeping through my sweat-slicked skin. After two loops through town, I decide I shouldn’t push my knee much farther, and I turn back for the inn, cooling off at a walk when I reach Main Street. I near A Shipwrecked Bean and think of Harper standing in the line, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders, the aroma of coffee and pastries masking her gentle scent, which I didn’t catch until we stepped outside. Sweet, soft herbs, musky and wild. Orange blossoms and bergamot. I can still remember it, as though it lingers in the fog that rolls through the town.
It takes me a second to realize I’ve stopped in front of the café. I’m looking at the line behind the ordering counter, but I’m seeing Harper. I’m reliving that moment I asked her for a recommendation and she turned around. Those full lips. Glowing skin. Bangs that skimmed her brows, the
dark strands offsetting her gray eyes, irises the shade of the overcast sky.
Features that seem so delicate, but she is not fragile. She is fierce. I knew it the moment she turned and looked at me, so fucking beautiful she nearly brought me to my knees.
My heart stutters beneath my ribs and I press my hand to my chest, closing my eyes. I still don’t understand it. How could I not have known who she was? How could I have been caught so easily in her spell? She’s the same woman who crashed into me. Who stole my baby brother right out of my grasp. Who ripped my life apart, and then simply … drove away.
When I open my eyes, it’s my future I see. My hands wrapped so tight around Harper’s throat that she can’t even beg for the mercy I won’t give.
She can fake her death. Run away into some idyllic secret life in a seaside town. She can stash her secrets and dodge time. But she cannot escape me.
I turn away from the coffee shop and stride through the mist, refocusing on my hunt, letting my vengeance reemerge to cut through the murk that seems to bleed into my mind whenever I think about the woman I’ve come here to kill.
By the time I make it back to the inn, I feel realigned with my mission. I know who she is and what she’s done, but she clearly still has no fucking idea who I am. It’s somewhat infuriating, honestly. But at least I have the upper hand.
I’ve got Jake’s body buried away in a secret spot along the river, ready to be exhumed whenever I feel like tormenting her. Nothing says psychological pressure quite like a random foot showing up in your mailbox or a femur in the cupboard when you go to grab a mug for your agonizingly long coffee-brewing process. I cling to these little fantasies. They give me the clarity I need amidst the confusion of the last two days. My steps might be painful, but they’re lighter. I’m even smiling as I enter the inn and make my way down the hall. I’ve got the upper hand, after all.
Until I don’t.
When I enter my room, I take only one step before going rigid. I stand unmoving as the door closes behind me with a quiet snick. The hairs on my arms rise. The details around me sharpen. There’s nothing different about
the room from when I left it, but whether it’s a scent or an energy or an echo
of intention, I know it.
She was here.
I stalk to the armoire first and throw the doors open, sliding the hangers across the metal rod to reveal the back of the wardrobe.
My backpack is gone.
I take a useless spin, desperate to believe that I just misplaced it. That it hasn’t disappeared. But it has.
My heart climbs into my throat to choke every breath with furious beats.
“Fuck. Fuck.”
I race to the shelves across from the bathroom sink, where the safe sits in a cubbyhole. My fingers tremble as I press each number. Zero. Seven. Zero.
Five. I pull the handle.
It doesn’t budge.
Sweat rolls between my shoulder blades. My skin is burning. My vision narrows at the edges. I try again, counting out loud as though it might
change the outcome.
“Zero. Seven. Zero. Five.”
I rattle the handle this time. But it still doesn’t budge.
Rage and panic flood every cell in my body. I twist away from the shelf to smash a fist down on the counter. The pain doesn’t soothe the feral fury that threatens to emerge in a scream. I stare at my reflection. Eyes wide.
Brows drawn, creases notched between them. Hair damp with sweat and rain. I lean closer, until my unsteady exhalations fog the mirror, my hands shaking as I grip the edge of the sink. Who the fuck knows what Harper has done with my belongings. She could be at the police station right now, laying my weapons out one by one on a table, relishing her macabre game of show-and-tell. She could be showing them my book … My fist crashes onto the counter a second time, pain radiating through
my bones.
“I’m going to fucking kill her.”
The promise lingers in my breath on the glass.
I march down the hall, glaring at every corner I pass that doesn’t have a camera. Which is all of them. It’s one of the reasons I picked this fucking
hotel in the first place. The total lack of security is kind of a big plus when your sole purpose for being in town is to commit fucking murder.
At least it is until someone steals your precious trophy book from the fucking safe when you’ve been gone for not even an hour.
A growl escapes my control as I round the corner and the reception desk comes into view.
As usual, the cadence of Irene’s snore flows from the darkness of her office. I roll my eyes and huff out a sigh as I hit the bell with more force than necessary.
There’s a startled snort in the dark. “I’m coming, I’m coming, keep your
panties on.”
I ring the bell again.
“I said I’m coming, Jesus H. Christ in a chicken basket.” Irene shuffles into view, straightening her glasses with crooked fingers. “Mr. Rhodes—”
“Irene,” I say, swallowing my irritation, though only barely, “I seem to have locked myself out of my safe and I need to access it for important documents.”
“Oh, oh. Just a minute.” She waggles a finger in the air and starts pulling open drawers on the other side of the counter, shuffling through their contents. I figure she must be searching for a key, which gives me at least a tiny shred of hope that maybe my book is still safely stored inside if a nondescript master key is buried among her belongings. But that little wisp of hope evaporates completely when she withdraws a Post-it note and slides
it across the counter. “There you go.”
Zero, nine, two, three, the note reads.
And above that: Master code for room safes.
I close my eyes. Take a deep breath in. Let it out slowly as I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Irene,” I say as I open my eyes and level her with a flat glare, “do you really think you should be giving me this?” I slide the paper back to her, but she merely waves my concern away and places the note back into the drawer.
“I’ve been running this inn for forty years. Seen all types come and go.”
She pins me with an unwavering stare over the acetate rims of her glasses.
“All types. Good and bad and indifferent. I can tell, Mr. Rhodes. You’re a good man.”
All the admonishments I’d like to make, or the snarky retorts, or even the frustrated sigh that was building in the back of my throat seem to vanish. She smiles at me as though she really believes the words she just said. As though, somehow, she knows I don’t agree.
I should tell her I’m not a good man. And I don’t know if I’ve ever been one. Maybe the monster in me was always lurking in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to come into the light. And when Billy died, there was no reason to keep it caged anymore. With the first bite of revenge, all it wanted was more.
Sometimes, I do wish I could tell someone about the kind of man I really am. I might not feel guilt about the things I’ve done, but my sins still grow around me like the impenetrable wall of a remote forest. I can’t really be seen when I lurk in those shadows. I don’t show anyone my true self. Not unless I have a blade in my hand and I’m carving my darkness right into them.
I clear my throat, ridding it of protests and confessions, giving Irene a weak smile. “Thanks for the code,” I say, nodding toward the paper before I turn away and head back to my room.
By the time I’m inside, the reality has truly sunk in. There’s no way my book is going to be sitting in that safe, particularly not when all my weapons are gone. I head to where it sits on the shelf, mocking me, and punch in the master code. Zero, nine, two, three.
The mechanism unlocks and the door swings open.
Just as I suspected, my book is nowhere to be seen. But, to my surprise, there’s something left in its place. I pull out a folded note, turning away from the shelves as I unfurl the torn paper to read the curling, precise script of an unfamiliar hand.
Hello, Ballmeat. I have your little art project. Maybe you should just fuck off out of town while you still can.
Sincerely, Your bitter enemy
PS How’s this for communication, asshole?
I catch my reflection when I turn my attention away from the paper in my hands. It’s not just fury I see. It’s the thrill of a chase. The challenge of someone who isn’t just prey, but another predator, perhaps one who is not all that different from me. I saved Harper Starling for last because I knew she would be the best prize. I just didn’t realize how right I would be. How worthy she would be of destruction.
“I cannot wait to kill Harper Starling,” I say to the man in the mirror, every word a deliberate, decisive vow.
I fold the paper along the creases she left and place it on my nightstand,
then grab my car keys and leave.
Or, I try to.
There’s only my vehicle and an Escalade in the parking lot when I get there, and I don’t even make it halfway to the road before I realize there’s a critical problem with my SUV. I throw it into park across two empty spaces and slam the door shut behind me before walking around to the passenger side.
My knife is lodged to the hilt in the flat tire.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I snarl as I pull the blade free, the last of the air hissing through the slit left behind. My knee protests in the brace as I scan the space around me. There’s no other option. I can’t really call an Uber to take me to the home of someone I might possibly murder with my bare fucking hands.
With a heavy sigh, I hide the blade beneath the cuff of my sleeve, and then I start a painful jog toward Lancaster Manor. I stay off the main roads.
Stick to the quiet side streets with their mix of Victorian houses and wartime bungalows and the occasional new build that’s always too modern for its surroundings yet somehow seems to work as a contrast to its more colorful neighbors.
The fog is so thick that I can only see a few feet in any direction. There’s no one on the roads, but I hear things in the gloom. A door slamming shut.
Children’s hushed whispers, one of them starting a countdown as they take up a game of hide-and-seek. My haunted surroundings do little to dilute my obsession, Harper taking up all the space in my thoughts, so much so that I make a wrong turn and end up on a dead-end road. My knee throbs. My neck aches. My back hums with the threat of pain, a drum that echoes every footfall it took to get here. But I don’t stop. I just grip the knife tighter, imagining the moment I can hold it to Harper’s throat, when I can feel her heartbeat through the polished steel. I push myself to keep going, not letting myself slow to a walk until I get to the secluded side street where Lancaster Manor looms on the hill, staring down at the town shrouded in fog.
But when I finally arrive at my destination, I find that I’m not alone.
Sam Porter stands across the street from the main entrance of Lancaster Manor, his camera mounted on a tripod, panning across the estate as he makes notes into a voice recorder. It’s not until I get a little closer that I catch the occasional word. Serial killer … Murder at the cottage … Never the same … “Maybe La Plume was here all along. And maybe he never left,” he says, giving me a dark smile as I draw to a halt a few steps away. He turns off the camera and pockets the voice recorder, pushing the hood of his raincoat off his Porter Productions ball cap. “Hey, man. Great day for some atmospheric shots, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, sure is. Not such a great day for a jog, though. Think I’ll head back to the inn soon,” I say, the lie rolling off my tongue with ease as I cast my gaze up the hill to the foreboding home, a sentry lurking in the oppressive mist. “How’s your film coming together?”
“Good, thanks.” When I nod and make no move to ask prying questions, he says, “I’ll start interviewing some of the townsfolk this week, actually.”
“Oh, yeah?” I jerk my head in the direction of the manor house.
“Lookin’ to start with whoever lives there?”
Sam’s cheeks puff out as he blows a long breath through pursed lips. “I wish. Somehow, I don’t think the old man is going to give me an interview, all things considered.” I tilt my head, my brows furrowed, and Sam smirks.
He knows he’s piqued my interest, and I’ve given him just enough of a
reaction to warrant the crumb of a reward. “You really don’t know the story about that place?”
I shake my head. This time, my reply is honest. I swallow the swell of anger I feel at myself for being so focused on hunting Harper that I didn’t research the town’s ancient history, and now I have to defer to this frat boy– looking prick with his polo shirt and his stupid bleached teeth and country club–bland yet conventionally “good” looks. I grind my teeth in irritation before I paste on a lazy smile and say, “I heard it won a gardening competition or two, but beyond that, no.”
“Lancaster Manor is as old as Cape Carnage. The Lancaster family owns half of the businesses in and around town. A silver mine, back in the early days. A distillery. The general store. The list goes on. Problem is, when you’re looming over a town like this one for generations, it might give you wealth and success, but it makes you a target, too.” Sam stares up at the house for a long moment before turning his attention to his equipment, pulling the camera off the tripod, then removing the plastic cover protecting it from the rain.
“You mean for that Plume guy?” I ask, purposely flubbing the name even though I remember it with clarity from the last time we spoke.
“La Plume, yeah. Have you ever heard of Sleuthseekers?” When I shake my head, a thread of disappointment weaves itself through Sam’s expression. He straightens his cap and places the camera into its padded bag before starting to dismantle the tripod. “I’m one of the founding members.
It’s an online amateur investigative group. We’ve solved two murder cases already. You really not into true crime stuff, huh?”
“I mean, it sounds pretty cool,” is all I can manage with a shrug. I guess he’s not that different from me, in a way, considering I hunt down criminals in my spare time, too. But I don’t relish the thought that Sam Porter and I might share similar pastimes. I don’t know why that bothers me. Maybe it’s an aura about him, something I can’t see or hear, but something I feel. Or maybe it’s just the fucking hat. “So what, you’re after La Plume now?”
“You could say that. We’ve been trying to track down his real history for the last five years.” Sam huffs a laugh. Shakes his head, then jerks it in the direction of the estate. “As far as anyone knows, this place is the location of
the last kill by La Plume. Poppy Lancaster was the woman’s name. He killed her right there on the property, in the little stone cottage where she lived with her son. As the story goes, her father was the one who found her body. He ended up raising his grandson on his own.”
My first thought is Harper, alone in that same stone cottage with a man outside her window, watching her intimate moments from the shadows of her garden. My fingers tighten around the handle of the knife, the quiver of Jake Hornell’s final breaths a memory imprinted into my skin. I would kill him again, if I could.
You want to kill her too, I remind myself. You just want her to yourself, that’s all.
“But the way I see it,” Sam continues, breaking me free from the storm that’s rolling through my thoughts, “if Poppy Lancaster came across a secret her father was hiding, who says he didn’t kill her to keep himself hidden? What better way to throw suspicion off himself than to murder her with the same method and then cover his tracks with a weak alibi and the burden of a grandchild? And then if he changed his modus operandi entirely after murdering Poppy, he could have kept killing in Cape Carnage without ever being caught.”
“I thought serial killers don’t really change their methods. You really think he completely gave up his pattern and managed to stick to it all this time?”
Sam’s brows knit and he tugs the zipper of the camera case closed with more force than necessary. “It’s not totally unheard of,” he says, his eyes meeting mine only briefly, as though he’s struggling to hide his irritation at my dismissive comment. “He’s a smart guy. If he really did kill his own daughter to remain undetected, changing his pattern isn’t much of a stretch.
He wouldn’t be the first to do so.”
“Interesting. You know more about this stuff than me, that’s for sure,” I say, and he preens at the acknowledgment. “Guess that makes sense if the disappearances around here haven’t stopped, like you were saying.”
“Exactly. And the police aren’t going to get off their asses and do anything to solve it. They only care about keeping tourism alive and the dollars flowing. It’s not like they’d want to bring attention to it, you know?
Cape Carnage used to be just another sleepy little seaside town on the slow path to abandonment until several years ago, when they elected Mayor Patel and she ushered in the plans that overhauled its tourism industry. They’re making money hand over fist now with all the weird and creepy Carnage shit. And this town belongs to Arthur Lancaster, just like it’s belonged to the
generations before him.”
Arthur.
I fight to keep a devious grin from slipping across my features and unmasking my hidden desires. Harper Starling might have taken my most prized possession, but I have something just as powerful. I have a wolf on a chain. One who has scented his precious beast. One who clearly will not be deterred from flushing out his prey. Arthur Lancaster.
“I mean, I guess that all makes sense,” I say, trying to temper my excitement with notes of skepticism. “All you need is proof, I guess.”
Sam slips the tripod into a carrying case and slings the camera bag over his shoulder. “I have something better. I have the story of a lifetime. And all I have to do is wait for the sun and moon and sea to align to get it. At the next spring tide, Arthur Lancaster’s biggest secret will surface, and even he doesn’t realize just how big it is.”
“Spring tide?” I ask. But Sam doesn’t answer. He just smiles in a way that’s meant to bait and control, to keep me hooked on a line he’s not ready to reel in.
He claps me on the shoulder, a gesture that should feel friendly, but seems hollow. “Need a ride back to the inn?”
“Nah,” I reply. “Thanks, though. I’ll keep going for a bit.”
“See you around.” With a tip of the brim of his hat, Sam heads to his car.
I watch him drive off in the rain. I wait until the road descends into silence.
In nothing more than a handful of heartbeats, it’s just me and the manor on the hill. It’s the branches that reach toward me in the mist, offering their secrets. It’s the ghosts that Harper Starling can’t outrun.
A raven caws in the fog. A throaty diesel engine starts up from the
direction of the little stone cottage.
I smile.
