TREASURES
Harper
“YOU’RE SURE ABOUT THIS? THE Pocket Rocket is basically a deathtrap,”
Lukas says as I whip back the canvas cover from the old soapbox racer.
“Aren’t they all?” A cloud of dust envelops us, catching the morning sun through the filmy window of the shed. I wave a hand in front of my face as I step closer to the makeshift car, its body constructed from two whiskey barrels that have been cut up and welded together with extra panels of steel.
Arthur’s ingenuity might as well be stamped right next to the Lancaster Distillery logo that’s branded into the aged oak. “I can’t believe Arthur let you name it the Pocket Rocket.”
Lukas chuckles, sliding a palm over the faded name painted above a decorative wing. “He wasn’t really up on his penis slang, you know? When Bert nearly pissed himself announcing my turn and started cracking some pretty obvious innuendos while commentating on my run, he caught on pretty quick. I was grounded for a solid two weeks after that.” Lukas’s smile turns bittersweet and his gaze grows distant, as though he’s looking back in time. “Even still, it was worth it. That was the best day.”
My heart sinks as I watch Lukas run a hand through his short black hair and rest it on the back of his head, something he always does when the weight of his life seems too heavy a burden to bear. Though he meets my eyes for only a fleeting moment, it’s long enough to see the raw edges of a wound that’s never healed. A wound named Maxine, the girl he loved all his life. The one who picked up and left Carnage in the dead of night on their
graduation day with no explanation, as though she couldn’t wait another moment to get away.
It broke him irreparably. And despite being tall and fit, independently wealthy before thirty, and painfully good-looking in a broken soul kind of way, I’m ninety-nine percent sure Lukas is a virgin. Not that it’s any of my fucking business.
“Are you sure you’re okay with me using the Rocket?” I ask, pulling my thoughts away from the “Is Lukas a virgin?” debate I’ve had with myself many times, even though it skeeves me out a bit as he feels like he could be my brother. Lukas is already shaking his head and dismissing my concern.
“I can find something else—”
“No way. It’s totally fine, Harp. I’d love to see it reclaim its former glory.” Lukas whacks the barrel with a loving pat and something clunks in the undercarriage and falls to the floor, rolling off into the shadows. “Yeah … I suppose a decade of sitting idle hasn’t done the recycled parts any favors. You’re gonna have to take her apart and really make sure she’s at least more roadworthy now than when we first made her.”
I only have two weeks before the race, so realistically a full overhaul is not in the cards. But I just smile and nod. “Yeah, I’ll make sure she’s ready to fly. Might give her a new name, though. I don’t need to throw myself under your grandfather’s judgy bus.”
“I’m still pissed at you for sacrificing me to the bus. Those gutters are such a bitch. It’s going to take me all afternoon, and I’m not going to have time for a shower before theater rehearsal. Ross is still jealous that I scored the Beast role in the production. He’s definitely gonna call me out on my stank in front of the cast.”
“Then you should definitely be thanking me for not suggesting the septic system.” I smile as Lukas rolls his eyes and tosses a dusty rag in my direction. “Don’t worry, I called the guy to come in and fix it. That job is off your shoulders. For now.”
Lukas’s expression softens as he swipes a hand over the surface of a stool and lowers himself onto the cracked vinyl. “Thank you for always looking after my grandfather. This place would be falling apart without you.”
“It’s no trouble.”
“It’s Arthur Lancaster. It’s always trouble.”
Lukas is right about that. Arthur is always trouble, but in a way I admire.
And his most troublesome behavior reflects a hidden life that even Lukas isn’t privy to. I’m one of only two people who know what he’s truly capable of. Me, his greatest ally. La Plume, his formidable enemy. And I guess now
a third person.
Nolan Rhodes.
My focus cuts toward the bag I shoved beneath the soapbox racer yesterday before Nolan showed up at my cottage. “Actually,” I say, picking up the backpack, “I do need to call in a favor.”
Lukas’s brows hike in a silent question and I give him a grave smile in reply as I hand him Nolan’s backpack. “I need you to hide this. Put it somewhere I won’t find it. And don’t tell anyone where it is. Not unless something happens to me.”
His brows knit. He stares at the backpack as though it might blow up if he touches it. With a swallow, he finally takes it, settling it on his lap.
“What do you mean, ‘unless something happens to you’?”
“Like I go missing. Or if I wind up badly hurt, like the kind of hurt where I’ll never wake up to tell you what happened. Or if I turn up dead.”
“What the fuck? Are you in trouble?”
“Everything is fine.”
“It doesn’t sound fucking fine. What’s going on?”
I shake my head, placing a hand on his when he starts to open the zipper.
Lukas is not a man of darkness, despite how it has enveloped his life, often without his awareness. I’m not about to let Arthur’s lifetime of work collapse because of me. “This is a need to know situation. And the less you know, the better it is for everyone.” With a single nod, I squeeze his hand.
“Please. Just put it somewhere safe and don’t look inside. If something
happens, send it straight to the FBI.”
“The FBI? Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Sheriff Yates is about as useful as tits on a rock. It needs to go to someone with two brain cells to rub together.”
Silence descends in the shed. Lukas searches my face, dust motes twisting in the wedge of light between us, an ethereal boundary between two creatures who might as well belong to different realms. Lukas Lancaster is the angel of Cape Carnage. And I’m the devil who claims the souls that come to pollute his heaven.
When he tugs the strap of the backpack over his shoulder and gives me a nod, I can’t help but feel like I’m failing to keep his sanctuary safe.
“Are you sure you’re okay? I’m really worried about you,” Lukas says, his rich brown eyes searching mine, concern woven into his furrowed brows. For a guy who looks the way he does, with his dark hair and stubbled, chiseled jaw, his athletic frame and broad shoulders, you wouldn’t think he is the way he really is, all his worries laid out on the patchwork of plaid sleeves that are rolled to his elbows and smell like malt mash. “I’m sorry you’ve taken on so much of the work of looking after Arthur. I can spend more time here—”
“No, Lukas.” I toss the canvas back over the Pocket Rocket, a plume of dust erupting around us like a pyroclastic ghost. “I love spending time with Arthur. And it makes him so happy that you’re restoring the distillery. I
know it takes a lot of time. I’m good.”
“Are you sure?”
“Trust me,” I say, patting his arm on my way toward the door. Lukas rises to follow. “If I need your help, I’ll definitely let you know. It won’t be long now before you’re back to a more normal schedule, don’t worry. And it’ll be worth it. The whole town is going to be so excited to see the distillery up and running again properly.”
Lukas shrugs, turning to thread the chain between the shed’s door handles and close the padlock after us. He stops at my side, and we take in the view. You can see the whole town from our perch on the hill of Lancaster Manor. Puffs of white cloud shift high above us in the relentless coastal wind. Spears of sunlight pierce through their soft edges in search of the water, boats traversing its shining surface far in the distance. The Victorian homes in the heart of the downtown face off against the sea, bright colors that fight the gloom of depths that hold death and dark memories for those who have been here long enough. Every piece of this
town exists in the shadow of Lancaster Manor. Even the people who live on its grounds.
“I don’t know if they will be,” Lukas says, as though he’s plucked my thoughts right out of my head. “Some people, sure. But not all.”
I look up at him, squinting as I take in his pensive expression. “What makes you think that?”
“I dunno. I just feel like they’ll never be ready to let some things go.
Like what happened to my mom.” He lifts one shoulder, not pulling his focus away from the town as his grip tightens on the strap of the backpack.
“When I went into Maya’s this morning to get some stuff for cleaning the gutters, she said some guy had come in to ask her questions about the estate for some documentary he’s filming. A documentary, Harper. It’s like someone is always looking to exhume my family’s past. You know?” He shakes his head, not looking down at me, which I’m grateful for. Because if he did, he might see the tension in my jaw as I clench my teeth, or the color that infuses my cheeks. “Apparently, he was talking to Daryl Winkle the other day about our piece of land out by the Ballantyne River.”
My eyes narrow, and he looks down at me as though sensing the alarm that suddenly pulses through the chambers of my heart. “Why would he want to know about that?”
“Probably because I sold it last month, though I’m not sure why that would matter to him.”
I nearly choke on a breath of air. “You what?”
“Sold it,” Lukas repeats, a crease notching between his brows. “We didn’t need it anymore, and the council fast-tracked a development application—”
“To whom?” I realize too late that my tone is harsher than it should be, and a note of suspicion now sharpens the angles of his face as Lukas stares back at me. “I’m sorry. Arthur told me he signed over the power of attorney to you and it’s none of my business or anything. I guess I’m just surprised, that’s all.”
“Does this have anything to do with what you’re asking me to hide?”
“No.” I shake my head as though trying to dislodge that lie from my throat. “No, I’m really just curious, that’s all.”
Though he is still scrutinizing my expression, Lukas’s concern gradually eases, and the tension in his clenched jaw unlocks. “Some property development company called Viceroy. They approached me a while back about building a new boutique hotel along the river. They’re pretty eager to get started. I heard from Bert that they’ve already gotten their permits and rented the diggers. Guess I’ve been so caught up with everything at the distillery that I just forgot to mention it—I’m sorry. That place has kinda sucked up all my time.”
“No, don’t apologize.” I muster a smile that I hope will be convincing enough. “That’s great,” I say, another complete fucking lie. A pang of guilt snaps at my heart. My existence is already full of enough deception that I try to limit the number of direct lies I tell to the people I care about. Aside from Arthur, Lukas is the only person I really let myself get close to, and I already feel guilty enough on a regular basis that he doesn’t know the kind of woman I truly am. I don’t like making that worse. “When does the sale
close?”
“Three weeks from today.”
“Three weeks from today,” I parrot after him, swallowing the urge to bark a bitter laugh. “Cool … cool. Well, I’d better get going.” I try to temper the suspicion rising in Lukas’s eyes once more by giving him an easy, untroubled smile. With a brief yet awkward salute, I turn for the path that leads down to my cottage at the edge of the property. “Have fun with the gutters.”
“Next time, you’re the one going under the judgy bus,” he calls after me, but I just toss a middle finger back at him and fight the consuming urge to run the rest of the distance to my house.
When I get inside, my breath is uneven, my heart hammering every beat against my bones. Three fucking weeks.
I march toward the staircase, taking the stairs by two, turning toward the guest room when I arrive on the landing. The air seems to never move in the room that belonged to Lukas when he was only a baby. Aside from the kitchen, it’s the room I know Arthur would be most reluctant to enter if he came searching for his bag, the memories of it seared so deeply in his brain that I don’t think even his illness would force them out. I only stay long
enough to grab the bag from where I’ve stashed it beneath the bed and take it back downstairs.
“From one murder bag to the next,” I say aloud as I sit on one of the overstuffed couches and drop it at my feet. “What the hell have I done with my life?”
It’s definitely not what I ever expected. I had a good home. A happy childhood. I thought I’d have a normal life. But the universe loves to prove you wrong. One day, it upends everything. One day, you might even wind up captured by a serial killer and thrown in his cellar as the universe really says, “Fuck your expectations.”
And now, here I am, pulling Arthur’s “grim-noire” from his bag of tricks.
“Chrissakes. This is so … Arthur.” I run my fingers across the title stamped into the soft leather, each letter embossed with gold that Arthur must have pressed into the calligraphy himself. This is the first time I’ve ever dared to take a very close look at his prized record of names and dates and manners of death. I flip open the worn cover. Inside, there are recipes for poisons. Notes for noxious gasses. Ratings for weapons, methods of decomposition. Over many years, he’s detailed the disposal of each body, with locations marked with numbers on maps of his properties.
I flip to the one for the parcel of land at the Ballantyne River.
I’m pretty sure blood stops coursing through my body.
I close my eyes and expel a long, resigned breath. “I’m so fucked.”
My gaze tracks up to the chessboard on the little table by the unlit
hearth.
Stalemate.
His voice surfaces again.
I close my eyes and press them into the heels of my palms.
“Neither of us won,” his voice echoes in time.
“Let me lose this time, Adam,” I remember saying. It was that day we waited for a tow truck to come and collect our broken-down vehicle from a deserted dirt road. I can still smell the smoke of palo santo burning in the half-moon incense holder that Adam loved, the one that lived on top of the tiny wood-burning stove in the van we called home. It was the day our lives shattered and splintered and collapsed around us.
Sometimes, it feels like the five years that have elapsed since then never existed. Not when I hear his voice so clearly in my mind.
“I’ll always lose for you.” Adam’s words were warmed by his ever- present grin as he tipped his king over on the chessboard, forfeiting to me like he always did when there were no moves left in the game.
It was just a moment later when a knock rapped three times on our sliding door.
I force my eyes open, willing myself away from a time I keep pushing away, one that will drown me, if I let it. I stare at the pieces, set up and ready for a new game. Just stare and stare, one deep breath after the next, until the memory of Adam’s smile finally fades.
I need to keep my promises. The one I made to Adam, to never give up hope. The one I made to Arthur, to protect this town.
The ones I’ve made to myself.
I force my attention back to the book splayed out on my lap. I’m still staring down at the map when I pull my phone from my pocket, barely glancing away long enough to hover my thumb over the new contact.
Ballmeat Guy.
I press it and put the call on speaker.
In two rings, I receive a heartwarming greeting from Nolan Rhodes.
“Who is this?”
“Who do you think?” I resume staring down at my near future, drawn in ink and brown splotches that look suspiciously like old blood. I raise the book close to my face and squint at the droplets, then give it a tentative sniff. The scents of ink and leather lift from the page, a mustiness lingering like a phantom in the fibers of the deckle-edged cotton paper. I crinkle my nose. “What is it about these men and their books of blood and skin?”
“What did you say?”
I roll my eyes, closing the grim-noire and setting it next to me on the couch. “Still want your precious scrapbook back?”
“You know, I do have other shit to do. You can’t just say ‘scrapbook,’ and I’ll come rushing to your door.”
“We both know that’s a lie. You came here for me. To make me into one of your little tannery trophies. And now that I have your trophy case, the
way I see it, you have time at your disposal.”
“So you expect the whole world to revolve around you. Color me shocked.”
I bite down on a sharp retort. That urge to tell him he doesn’t know who he’s talking to slips between my enamel until I swallow it down. My gaze slides back to the chessboard. No matter how far I try to get away from the person I used to be, she’s still there, ready to claim a past I’ve tried to wash away. But I haven’t kept her hidden for this long just for someone like Nolan Rhodes to bring her to the surface.
“It’s a simple question, Nolan. I could have it sent to the FBI if you prefer.”
There’s a measure of self-satisfaction in his voice, and I imagine he must be smirking as he says, “If it were that easy, you would have done it by now. But it’s not that easy, is it? You need my help.”
For the love of God. I truly despise this man. And not just because he’s
right.
“Do you want your fucking book or not?”
There’s a long pause. For a moment, I think the line has disconnected, but the seconds tick away on the screen. The book by my side seems to whisper to me in the silence. There are too many names on the map of the Ballantyne River property. Too many bodies for me to unearth on my own in such a short time. Enemy or not, Nolan Rhodes is the only person I can rely on to help me protect Arthur’s secret, to keep Lukas and the rest of Cape Carnage safe. And I don’t know what I’ll do if he says no.
It’s just a single word, but in his rich tone I can hear both wariness and determination when he finally answers. “Yes.”
“Then we have some work to do.”
