Page 26 of Tourist Season

My brows draw together with confusion, but Harper barely looks at me as she makes her way down the aisle, feigning interest in different ointments and concoctions on the shelves. “I didn’t fly a drone over your house,” I say.

“Oh, really? Because you’ve spied on me with one before, haven’t you ,” she whisper-snarls, not a question but an accusation.

She flicks her bandaged hand in my direction and I suppress a sudden urge to snatch it out of the air so I can get a proper look at the wound beneath the white gauze.

“You were flying that thing as I was going to the gym the other morning. That’s how you got the dumbass idea about me having a crush on”—her eyes dart around us before she leans closer—“ you know who .”

Fucking Jake Hornell . I would kill him again if I could. And I would take my time about it. I would make him suffer .

I shake my head to rid it of those murderous fantasies and all the questions that threaten to arise about why it would be so fucking satisfying to do it all over again. “I swear to you, I wasn’t piloting any drone today.”

“Sure. I almost believe you.”

“I’m telling you the truth.”

“Then who was?”

“I don’t know.” I scratch my stubble, worry gnawing at my guts as Harper watches me, notes of fear hidden deep beneath her tough exterior.

I did spend some time following Sam around the first couple of days.

It wasn’t very enlightening. He had busied himself interviewing locals in the privacy of their homes or businesses.

But when I’d been close enough to eavesdrop, the conversation centered around uncovering anything that would prove Arthur Lancaster is the infamous La Plume.

He was obsessed. And judging by his furrowed brow and deep frown as he scribbled notes in a leatherbound journal, he wasn’t getting the big hit he was looking for. Yet.

So far, he’s been staying away from Lancaster Manor.

How do I know?

Because I have not been staying away from Harper Starling.

Whenever I’ve felt reasonably sure that Sam has been occupied with his interviews, I’ve let myself succumb to following Harper, as though I’m indulging in a drug I can’t say no to.

I’ve hopped the stone wall surrounding her cottage and watched from the bushes like a proper fucking creep as she’s worked in the garden of Lancaster Manor, edging the beds, planting new flowers, trimming hedges and trees.

Other times, she’s tended to the public gardens around town.

The flowers that frame the WELCOME TO CAPE CARNAGE sign.

The park on Randall Road. The hanging baskets that line Main Street.

She had help putting those up from a trio of guys that I recognized from the coffee shop the other day.

They’re all older men wearing wedding bands, but it scratched at my nerves all the same.

I could have been the one to help her. Maybe if I had, she’d let her guard down and give me enough information to figure out what she’s done with my scrapbook.

Then I could get back to my real reason for being here.

At least, that’s what I keep trying to tell myself.

“Sam’s drone operator,” I finally answer. Irritation crawls beneath my skin like scuttling insects. I thought I’d built enough of a rapport with Sam that he would ask me if he needed help with the drone again, but clearly I was wrong. “He must have arrived this morning, I guess.”

“You guess? I thought that was part of our deal, that you were supposed to be keeping tabs on Porter and leading him away.”

“I have been.”

Harper snorts. “Clearly.”

“Maybe I’ve been too busy with other projects .” I pick up a small bottle, Corpse Reviver Hangover Juice written above the image of a dancing skeleton on the black label. I toss it into Harper’s basket and she hits me with a vicious glare.

“You’re not the one who also has to work all day.

And I have to rebuild a fucking soapbox racer too so I can cover your ass for your little bird feeder present.

You’re welcome, by the way.” She picks up several bottles of fake blood and drops them into her basket.

A little spark seems to dance in her eyes just long enough to arouse my instincts for self-preservation, and then she turns her back on me to continue down the aisle.

“I hope you’re enjoying your stupid fucking holiday in my town.

What are you even doing with yourself all day?

Aside from not keeping up your end of our deal. ”

Watching you , my very unhelpful internal monologue volunteers with cheerful enthusiasm.

“Right,” she says before I have a chance to cobble an answer together.

“You’ve been doing sweet fuck all, which is super surprising .

I’m truly shocked. And now , since you haven’t been deflecting him like you promised, Sam is flying drones over Arthur’s fucking property, spying on us as we’re trying to have a cup of coffee.

And what recourse do I have to stop him?

It’s not like I really want to call Sheriff Yates, you know? ”

“Why not? Does La Plume have bodies buried on the home estate too?”

Harper reaches the end of the aisle and turns on me, and though I expect the vicious look in her eyes from my needling remarks, that’s not all I see.

There’s a glassy sheen over their gunmetal depths.

She swallows, staring up at me in a challenge.

“Believe whatever you want about me. I know what you think I’ve done, and I don’t fucking care about trying to change your mind.

But you are wrong , Nolan. Arthur Lancaster is not La Plume. ”

I could argue back. Say something about our nightly excursions that seem to prove otherwise. But the conviction in her eyes gives me pause. And Harper takes that beat of time to push past me, brushing the fingers of her bandaged hand beneath her lashes as she goes.

“Harper—”

“Leave me alone.”

I watch her walk to the counter and unload her basket, Maya’s obvious concern shifting between Harper and me.

She whispers something to Harper, who only nods before paying for her goods in cash she pulls from the chest pocket of her faded plaid shirt, hastily packing her purchases into a backpack, then slinging it over her shoulder.

When Harper stalks toward the door, she darts a brief glance in my direction.

It’s only long enough to imprint the image of her pain and anger into my memory, and then she’s gone.

I move closer to the bay window, watching as she heads down the street.

Her bandaged hand swings in the sun as she strides away from me as fast as she can without running.

I contemplate exiting the store so I can track her from the sidewalk, but I linger there, watching through the window as though she might return.

With a deep sigh, I shift my attention across the street, my focus passing over the increasingly familiar shops. A Shipwrecked Bean. Craft-A-Corpse. Bhandari Law Offices. Disco Barber. A new office that just opened, Viceroy Properties.

And standing across the street at the entrance of Viceroy is Sam Porter. He’s got papers clutched in his hand. A camera bag slung over his shoulder. He’s facing the same direction where Harper just left. His eyes are fixed on something in the distance.

Or someone.

A breath later, I’m leaving Maya’s shop and striding toward him.

He catches sight of my brisk walk and gives me a brief flash of a smile and a wave with the papers in his hand before he opens the flap of his bag and slides them inside. I catch the pale greens and blues of a map before they slip into the shadows. My heart knocks against my ribs.

“Hey, Sam,” I say, trying to keep my voice light, though it’s more of a struggle than I thought it would be.

“Rhodes. Hey, man.” He extends a hand and I shake it, and he’s barely touched my palm before he’s nodding in the direction Harper just walked. “You know her?”

I follow his gesture and look down the street, spotting Harper’s dark hair blowing in the breeze. I keep scanning the sidewalk, not wanting to let my attention linger on her in case he notices. “Who?”

“The woman there,” he says, pointing to her. “The one with the plaid shirt. She was just in the same shop as you.”

I shake my head and shrug, not taking my eyes from Harper until she disappears around the bend of the road. “Nope. Sorry. Don’t know her.”

Sam gives only a thoughtful hum that’s colored with a note of disappointment.

I offer him an untroubled smile, but the one he gives me in reply is only faint.

I can tell his thoughts are elsewhere, and when his gaze darts to where Harper has faded from view, it’s not hard to track their whereabouts.

“How’s the documentary going?” I ask, trying to swallow the sudden need to throw him off her scent. “Making progress?”

“Getting there.” He pats his camera bag with a little more enthusiasm than he had moments ago. “Finished a few interviews, waiting on a few more.”

“Need any help with the drone again? I’ve got free time. Happy to lend a hand if you need.”

“Thanks, man. My guy showed up, so I should be all set, but I’ll let you know.

” Sam smiles, though his eyes slide back down the road, narrowing just long enough to betray his thoughts of pursuit.

If he’s seen Harper sitting with Arthur outside the cottage that once belonged to Poppy Lancaster, I’m sure Harper is a new target.

Another layer in an already complicated history.

But the spark in his eyes makes me feel like there’s something more. His expression now is the antithesis of the one I saw painted on his face after the interviews, when it was obvious that there was something missing from the picture he was trying to pull together.

The man before me now is a hunter. He’s got the expression of a predator who has caught the scent of its prey on the wind.

I know it, because I’ve seen that same look in my own eyes when I’ve stared in the mirror and imagined the blood I was about to spill.

I’ve seen it when I told the mirror I was going to kill Harper Starling.

“Well,” Sam says, patting his bag where the papers are hidden, “I’d better run, got lots of work to do. I’ll see you around?”

“Sure will,” I reply.

Sam leaves me on the sidewalk, but the growing dread remains long after I watch him drive away.