Page 15 of Tourist Season

T HERE’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.