Page 20 of Tourist Season

“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.”