DESCENT
Harper
“GOOD BOY,” MORPHEUS SAYS ABOVE the rumble of the tractor engine as he picks at the mulched flesh on my gloved palm. “Pretty murder bird.”
I shake the glove off my other hand, and with a slow and fluid motion, I raise it to pet his back. “That’s right. You are a pretty murder bird.” His feathers shimmer beneath my fingertips, iridescent blues and greens and purples vibrant despite the dim light of the overcast sky. I turn and set him down on the garden wall with a hunk of Jake Hornell’s mangled right hand to eat. “I’ll bring you some more treats in a minute.”
I check my watch and press my arm against the gun that’s holstered at my side to ensure it’s still there, as though it could simply disappear and leave me unarmed. It’s nearly noon, almost an hour since I made it home from the the Capeside Inn. Nolan has probably finished his jog by now, and who knows how long it will be until he realizes I was there. It could be days, depending on how often he needs to use his bag of tricks. He could be checking his safe even less frequently if he’s here for several weeks. Maybe he doesn’t indulge in frequent scrapbooking. And it’s not like I can wait around all day until he figures it out and either leaves town like he should or comes to Lancaster Manor to get himself killed.
I probably should have planned this better. Bought some cameras and hidden them in his room, perhaps. Taken his point about communication and written a more comprehensive letter. Spelled out my almost-innocence.
I could have made it clear that he’s right—I am no saint. I did leave him behind on that road, after all. I left him to die so I could start a new life. But
I’m not the person he thinks I am. And I will not break my word to Arthur.
I’m not about to give up the life I’ve worked so hard to create just because he’s mistaken one monster for another.
I don’t owe Nolan Rhodes, or anyone else, an explanation. Not anymore.
I have a town to protect from shitty tourists and an elderly serial killer with memory loss to look after, for fucksakes. I can’t put my whole life on hold for some ridiculously hot psychopath who wants to kill me.
“This is not the best use of my time. So fuck that guy and his murder dimples,” I say to Jake’s severed hand, trying to rid myself of the memory of Nolan’s smile in the coffee shop and the way it ignited a dormant, long- neglected flame in me. I fold Jake’s fingers down, leaving only the middle finger upright in a fuck you gesture, then I toss it into Cookie Monster’s hopper. He’s one person to wind up in my woodchipper that I actually do feel a bit bad for, and I’m not even the one who killed him. I mean, he was Creepy Jakey, maybe creepier than I even realized, but he’s from town, and Arthur’s instructions have been explicitly clear. I will keep your secrets, Harper, but you must promise me. Promise me that you’ll always protect this town, no matter what it takes.
I heave a deep, regretful sigh as I watch the machine chew through the last of his flesh and bone, spitting it across the tarp. I’m bending to pick up Jake’s head by the hair when it suddenly turns off in an abrupt cessation of sound.
My heart lurches to a halt as I unholster my gun. I drop the head and pick up the bottle of Piss-Off! spray instead as I straighten, both nozzles pointed at the cab of my tractor.
Nolan Rhodes saunters into view, a dark smile coaxing out his deep-set dimples.
“Hello, Harper,” he says, pushing the hood of his sweater down from his damp hair. “I believe you have something of mine that I would like back.”
Morpheus caws a much-delayed warning as I stare down the barrel of the gun, keeping Nolan’s face trained within the sights while I release the safety on the side of the weapon. “I see you got my note. I thought my communication was pretty clear, but if you’re here, I guess it was missing something. So how about this?” I clear my throat, giving him a dramatic
pause. “Fuck. Off. Get the fuck out of Cape Carnage and never come back, and I’ll ensure that your book stays safely hidden. Is that clear enough for you this time?”
Nolan’s smile brightens. Something flashes in the dim light at his side.
It’s the blade I left behind in his tire, his fist tight around the handle, its deadly edge ready to kill. “I’m not going anywhere just yet. Not until you give me my book.”
“You think I’m just going to hand over my leverage? I’m not giving you shit,” I declare, firming my grip on the gun. “You need to leave, before you get everything even more ass-backwards than you already have. You’re making a mistake. I’m not who you think I am.”
“You’re right. I thought you were acoward, just running from your past.
Turns out you’re actually a soulless monster.” Nolan scoffs, his eyes slowly dropping to my feet and back up again, a look of disgust surfacing in his expression. For some reason, that hits harder than any of the vitriolic comments he’s made to me in the brief time I’ve known him.
Stalemate.
The word comes out of nowhere and crashes into me with enough force that I nearly lose sight of the present. The voice that delivers it is still so clear in my mind despite the years that have passed, a memory that has no right infiltrating such a fraught moment.
I shake my head only slightly, barely a perceptible motion as I try to rid myself of the echo. I don’t expect Nolan to notice, but I think he does, a crease settling between his brows. It’s not concern, even though it might seem that way on the surface. It’s just confusion—I know that. But even if it was some kind of fleeting wisp of empathy, I don’t want it. Not from him.
I suck in a breath to resume the argument about his trophy scrapbook when another voice interrupts my thoughts.
“Pretty murder bird,” Morpheus says from the garden wall. Our gazes cut toward him as he pecks the last of the morsels off the stone. “Nom, nom. C is for cookie.”
Morpheus gives three knocking clucks and then mimics the sound of the diesel tractor engine.
Nolan’s eyes slide to the woodchipper and then back to mine, disbelief now mixing with the revulsion that still simmers in his face. “Did you name your woodchipper after the beloved Sesame Street character Cookie Monster and then teach a raven to beg for human snacks made from the people you murdered?”
A thick swallow slides down my throat. “It’s not as bad as it sounds.”
“No,” Nolan says as all the light leaves his eyes. “It’s worse.”
“That’s good enough for me,” Morpheus recites in a painfully accurate replica of my own impersonation of Cookie Monster.
I’m desperate to drag a hand down my face, but I’m unwilling to let go of the gun or the bottle of Piss-Off! Neither feels like enough of a weapon when Nolan stares at me with such unforgiving malice. There’s enough heat in his glare to ignite a violent eruption in a dormant volcano.
“You’re a terrible human being,” he says, as though he’s affirming it to himself as much as he is to me.
“You don’t know anything about me,” I whisper.
“Oh, really? I think I know plenty.” He takes a step closer, and though everything in my body screams at me to run, I stay right where I am with the gun aimed at his face. “I know you kill people and drive away. I know you dispose of dead bodies with a woodchipper.”
“You kill people and make them into a scrapbook, so that’s a bit of the pot calling the kettle black, don’t you think?”
“At least I dispose of them properly. You do realize bone chips don’t just magically disintegrate in the soil, right? I guess I know how you get all those gardening awards now. Maybe the police would like to know too.”
Nolan frowns down at the tarp and then over to the beds of freshly planted flowers before he settles his ire back on me. He takes another step closer, his grip tightening on the handle of the knife. “Tell me, do you hunt with the old man? Or is it just his messes that you clean up? Is that why he lets you live in this cottage? Maybe you’re the daughter he always wished he had.”
Bile churns beneath my sternum. I don’t know if he understands what he’s saying, or if it’s just a cruel coincidence. Either way, his words crawl beneath my skin, heating my palm in the glove as I firm my grip on the gun.
“Get the fuck off my property and maybe I’ll let you live,” I snarl as he takes another small step closer. I should back away. Or I should shoot him, just accept the risk that the bang will draw the attention of neighbors and tourists staying nearby. I can tear my name out of his book and hand it over as evidence. Work quickly to try to clean up the mess of what’s left of Jake Hornell and hope to fuck Cape Carnage’s inept Sheriff Yates won’t look too closely at anything other than Nolan, the man who was trespassing on Arthur Lancaster’s estate and threatening my life.
I’m still weighing the risks and benefits of shooting Nolan Rhodes in the face when he says something that slices through every thought spiraling through the confines of my skull.
“Since the police can’t seem to solve shit around here, maybe I should just let that amateur investigator Sleuthseekers group know, seeing as how the old man’s already got their attention.”
All the fire that was just coursing through my veins suddenly turns to ice. “What did you say?”
“The Sleuthseekers. They’re here, and it’s only a matter of time before —”
“Who is here?” I demand, taking a step back. “Who?”
A flicker of intrigue ignites in Nolan’s eyes, nearly hidden by the malice and hatred he seems to wear like armor. It’s as though he’s contradicting his better judgment when he unleashes a name I dread to hear. A man who was on my trail when I first disappeared. One who is tenacious. Determined.
And worse, one who hunts fame like a bloodhound scenting a fox. One I haven’t kept close tabs on since I thought my story had faded away when their group started favoring other prey. But I know I’ve made a colossal fucking mistake when Nolan says, “Sam Porter.”
I falter under the weight of those two words. And Nolan sees it. That one heartbeat where my finger separates from the trigger. When I lower the gun
just enough to leave an opening.
And he takes it.
The weapon flies from my grasp and lands on the grass. I have just enough time to hit the flat side of his blade with the bottle of Piss-Off! spray to knock it to the ground. But even as it’s falling, Nolan’s other hand
is already gripped tight around my throat. He leaves me just enough air to breathe. His palm tightens beneath my jaw, his fingers firm and unforgiving in my flesh. My pulse hammers into his warm skin as he draws me closer, staring down into my eyes as though he’ll consume my fucking soul.
“Where. Is. My. Book?”
Mint and rage flood my face with every breath he takes. Fury radiates from him, charging the air between us. That wedge of brown in his left eye seems to darken, as though the demon in him is rising to the surface. And I stare right back at it, daring the devil to come out. My words might be choked, but they still hold venom when I say, “Go fuck yourself.”
His grip hardens and I struggle not to cough. “I could torture you until you tell me.”
“I’ve been tortured before. Go ahead,” I hiss, the pressure building in my head with every heartbeat, my vision throbbing. Nolan’s brows knit tighter, just for a flicker of time, his scowl dropping to my lips before rising once more. “Except you should probably know …” My gloved hand grips his wrist and I haul myself closer, until there’s only an inch or two of space between us. “Your precious book will go straight to the FBI along with every scrap of information I’ve collected on you so far. The license plate of your rental vehicle. The medication you take. The pharmacy that fills your prescription. Your fucking phone number. Hurt me or kill me. Go right ahead and watch your life unravel. I’m sure your parents and sister will be so proud to find out who Nolan Rhodes truly is, especially after everything they’ve already lost.”
At the mention of his family, I see the first true moment of unease burrow beneath Nolan’s ruthless scowl. A muscle feathers along his jaw as though he’s trying to clamp down on his fear. His grip loosens just enough on my throat that I can take a full breath in.
“There’s only one way you’re getting that book,” I say. A shadow of rage passes across Nolan’s face, his lips set in a tense line. “Help me protect Arthur. Get Sam out of here.”
“If you want me to kill him, I’m not going to do that.”
“Fuck no.” I glare at him, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. “If you do that, the fucking Sleuthseekers will descend on this place. We’ll be overrun
by those fucking tin hat conspiracy weirdos. Just make him leave.”
Nolan lets out a bark of a laugh. There’s no joy or warmth in the smile he gives me. “So you want me to help you protect your serial killer benefactor from the guy who seems to be legitimately on his trail? That’s rich.”
“That’s the offer. Take it or get fucked.”
“Why don’t you just lead Sam off course by yourself? Judging by your little setup here,” he says with a jerk of his head in the direction of the woodchipper, “I’m sure you can manufacture a reason for him to take his focus off your friend and put it elsewhere. Maybe try being magnanimous for once in your life and take the heat for Arthur yourself.”
I swallow down the vows I’ve made. The promises I’ll do anything to keep. “If I could take the heat for him, I would,” I say. Though I’m sure Nolan won’t believe me, that’s the truth. I know enough about Porter to know that he’s not just here to solve a mystery. He’s here for fame. And no one could give him a better story than me. If I let Sam Porter get too close to me, he’ll thrust me back into the spotlight, and who knows what that bright light could uncover. Every promise I’ve ever made—to Arthur, to myself, to the ghosts I left in my past—will crumble like dust in my hands.
If only it were that simple.
I can’t do this on my own. Nolan Rhodes might have come here to kill me, but he’s suddenly the only person who can save me. “Help me or your book is going to the authorities.”
He scoffs, his eyes scouring my face as though he could flay the flesh from my bones with nothing more than a look. “Let’s say I do help you.
Then what? You’re just going to give me my book back and let me go on
my merry way?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know I won’t turn around and kill you the second it’s in my hands?”
“I guess you could.” I shrug. “But I suppose the rest of the evidence could still be a problem for you.”
Silence descends between us. His hand tightens once more around my throat and I capture a breath to hold it. Stalemate, I hear again as the edges
of my vision start to darken. My eyes press closed only long enough to will the memory away, and as soon as they do, Nolan’s grip relaxes just enough that the hum in my head subsides.
“I will help you with Arthur. And then you’ll give me the book and anything else you have stored away,” he finally says.
“I’ll give you the book and your weapons. You’ll leave town. Anything else stays with me, since I’m sure you’ll be gathering evidence against me during our super fun time together that I’m so looking forward to. Take it or leave it.”
I can see how desperately he wants that book. It’s a war behind his eyes.
But just because I have leverage and need his help, doesn’t mean I can trust him. No matter what I keep after our deal runs its course, he’ll kill me the moment that book is in his hands. I know it.
The only way I’ll survive is to kill him first.
“Pretty murder bird,” Morpheus says in the mist, his voice a flawless imitation of my own.
I swallow, unfolding my hand from Nolan’s wrist to hold it up between us for him to shake. “Do we have a deal?”
Nolan looks down at my offered truce. He gives so little away in his expression, his eyes fixed on my bloodstained glove. It takes a long moment before his focus finally meets mine once more and he uncurls his grip from my throat, one finger at a time. Morpheus caws in the shadows.
Maybe it’s a harbinger of doom. Or fate, sealed in an ominous song. His cry falls into the background as Nolan tugs the gardening glove from my hand and tosses it to the grass, then slips his palm against mine, his stare unblinking. “Make no mistake,” he says. “If I go down, I’m taking you with me.”
“I’m sure.” I can’t help the wicked smile that creeps onto my lips as I pump his hand twice. “Starting tomorrow.”
With my other hand, I raise the bottle of Piss-Off! and spray him in the face.
Nolan drops my hand and backs away, raising his arm in defense. “What the fuck? What are you doing?”
“Getting you to Piss-Off! I’ve had enough of your shit for one day.”
“It burns.”
“Good,” I snarl. Three more sprays land on his hand. “Get the fuck off my property. Take your fucking head with you. I’m not interested in cleaning up your mess.”
I toss Jake’s head at Nolan and it hits his chest with a dull thud. He’s wiping the spray from his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie when I open the valve on the garden hose lying next to the tarp and toss it in his direction.
“Come back tomorrow afternoon and we’ll figure this shit out,” I say, picking up the knife and the gun as he fumbles for the hose, a string of curses tumbling from his lips. He points the end toward his face and blinks into the trickle of cold water. “And if I see you before then, I’ll be putting you through my woodchipper before our deal even begins.”
With a final glance, I turn my back on the man who has come here to kill me and walk away.
