Page 35 of Tourist Season

N INE O’CLOCK WAS OVER THREE hours ago. I never replied, though one could argue that I had several good reasons.

Reason one: I hate him. Seriously. And I refuse to be dickmatized by that asshole.

Reason two: No matter how hard I keep trying to find evidence to the contrary, Nolan Rhodes hates me too. He told me so. Multiple times. He hates me he hates me he hates me.

Reason three: I do not need him right now. Absolutely not.

And most importantly, reason four: Arthur. I was lucky I found him on the kitchen floor when I did. Though I try not to think about how he could have died after a fall like that, the thought still haunts me, refusing to let go.

I look over to where he’s sleeping soundly despite the beep of his heart rate monitor and the harsh scent of disinfectant and the voices of nurses and patients on the other side of the curtains that separate us from the rest of the emergency ward.

A white gauze bandage is taped to his forehead.

Dried blood dots the collar of his hospital gown.

I frown, the inside of my bottom lip raw between my teeth.

Sometimes I don’t go to the main house after dinner to check on Arthur a final time before bed.

I might have so easily rationalized that he didn’t need me.

Or assumed he was already in his room and left without checking the kitchen.

He could have spent all night on the cold and unforgiving stone.

He could have been there alone. He could have—

I shake my head, forcing myself to banish my worst fears.

I don’t need Nolan. I’m not lonely. I’m not afraid. I can do this on my own.

I don’t miss him.

I groan and press my head against the wall behind me in the hope it might absorb me into another, less complicated dimension. Having a mortal enemy is a lot harder than I anticipated. Because I shouldn’t want him here. I shouldn’t miss him. At all . Except I think that I do.

I shift on the vinyl seat, the ache between my legs a persistent reminder of my night with Nolan.

I should not be thinking about that right now.

But every time I close my eyes, I hear his whisper in my ear.

I feel his calloused palms on my skin. I catch his scent in the air, bergamot and spice.

And it’s not just the sex. It’s the connection that came with it.

It felt like I had been cracked open just enough that I could let a little of myself out into the light.

After hiding for so long, I felt seen. For a moment.

But he hates me. I think.

A text buzzes in my hand, and in one heartbeat, Nolan’s name flashes through my mind. But it’s not him. It’s Lukas, and I try to push away the shard of disappointment that lodges in my chest.

How’s grumps?

Grumps? I bet Arthur loves being called that.

AUTOCORRECT! Gramps. But grumps is also pretty accurate.

Grumps is sleeping. I’m just waiting for the doctor to come by. Hopefully we’ll be out of here soon.

Okay. I changed to the earliest flight tomorrow, so I should be home by noon. I’m sorry for the shitty timing for being away.

Not your fault. Don’t worry about it, I don’t mind.

Still, I appreciate your help so much. Thank you.

Don’t thank me yet. I’m going to throw you under the judgy bus with “grumps” the first chance I get.

Fuck you, Harps.

I chuckle and pocket the device just as the curtain is swept to the side and the doctor enters with a nurse whose hospital scrubs stretch over her pregnant belly.

With a smile that deftly straddles the line of comforting yet professional, the doctor gives me a nod in greeting as the nurse gets to work changing Arthur’s IV fluids.

“I’m Dr. Reid,” she says with a warm Jamaican accent. I recognize both her and the nurse from town, though we’ve never officially met. “You’re Harper? Arthur’s granddaughter?”

“Oh … no, I mean yes, I’m Harper, but we’re not related. Just friends. I understand if you need to wait and give his medical information to his grandson. He’s away for a meeting but I can call him if you’d rather speak with him directly.”

She taps on her tablet. “No, it’s fine. Arthur authorized you on his medical records.

” I glance at Arthur’s bed. He’s still asleep, unaware that my heart has grown two sizes in my chest. “There doesn’t seem to be any sign of a stroke or internal hemorrhage after the fall.

He’s got some bumps and bruises, of course, but nothing is broken.

However, his bloodwork came back with a B 12 deficiency.

Has he been particularly irritable lately? ”

“It’s Arthur Lancaster. He’s always irritable.”

Dr. Reid does her best to suppress a smile, its faint traces fading as quickly as they appear. “What about any mention of pins and needles in his hands or feet?” I shake my head. “Problems with coordination and balance?”

“He crashed his golf cart yesterday.”

The doctor lets out a thoughtful hmm as she taps her stylus on the tablet to note the detail. “Have his Alzheimer’s symptoms noticeably worsened recently?”

Blood threads across my tongue as I worry my bottom lip.

I feel fucking terrible that I could have missed a constellation of symptoms that pointed to another health problem that could have been fixed.

“It’s hard to say. He’s been losing things more often.

He’s a bit paranoid that someone is breaking into his house to steal his belongings.

But this kind of thing has been happening for a while. ”

The doctor nods, giving me a polite smile. “I understand. We’re going to keep him in for a few days so we can get his B 12 levels up and monitor for other symptoms. He’ll be transferred to the geriatric ward, where he’ll be much more comfortable. Once we get him stabilized—”

The doctor’s next words are lost to a sudden cacophony outside our curtained room—a crash of metal across the floor, slurred yelling, and raised voices. I share a worried look with the doctor and nurse, and then they’re rushing into the corridor as I follow on their heels.

A huge mammoth of a man is facing off against a doctor in a room across the hall, a stainless-steel cart lying on its side at the edge of the curtain, metal instruments scattered across the floor.

Vomit glistens on his wiry ginger beard and stains the top of his white shirt.

There’s an open gash through his brow, a suture needle dangling from a thread sewn into his flesh.

The doctor who was treating him raises his hands in a placating gesture, and I can tell he’s nervous about being hemmed in between the gigantic man and a tangle of medical equipment and wires. “Mr. McMillan—”

“What is your fucking problem?” the man bellows, every word slurred and stretched. Two orderlies and the doctor and nurse who were attending to Arthur come closer, a halo of “calm down, sir” rising around him.

“Please sit down so Dr. Aspen can finish your stitches,” Dr. Reid says with calm authority. She’s only met with a tirade of drunken vitriol despite her polite request. “Sir, police will intervene if you do not calm down.”

“Stop telling me to fucking calm down .” The man rushes forward and tumbles over the cart, knocking over the pregnant nurse as he falls to the floor.

She lands hard on her ass and lets out an agonized yelp.

Both of the doctors immediately rush to her side while the orderlies keep the drunken man pinned to the floor.

A police officer jogs in a moment later, and the doctors help the nurse up, her eyes shining with unshed tears, a protective hand cradled around her belly.

Fury rages through the caverns of my heart. My hands are folded into fists, fingernails pressing crescent imprints into my palms. When I look over my shoulder at Arthur, he’s awake, watching me with grim determination.

I turn back to the man subdued beneath the knee of the officer. The details of the room seem to sharpen as this unfamiliar man is handcuffed and dragged to his feet. I’m not sure if he really sees me when he meets my eyes across the corridor. But I see him.

When Dr. Reid returns, she only stays long enough to see if I have any questions.

And after she departs, I turn all my attention to Arthur.

I fill his paper cup with water and hold it to his lips.

I unplug his phone from where I left it to charge and lay it beside his hand.

He says he doesn’t need help as he shifts on his bed, but I still push his pillows around until they’re right where he wants them.

He insists that I leave for my own benefit.

I know he wants to rest, so I don’t linger, even though I feel like I should be doing more to make him comfortable.

With a kiss to his cheek that he pretends to be disgruntled about even though he pats my hand, I leave him with the promise that I’ll return as soon as I can.

It’s nearly two in the morning when I get home, even later when I finally fall asleep.

But I’m wide awake at six, ready for a full day of activity.

I make coffee. Feed Morpheus. Check my garden for body part presents from my frenemy Nolan.

There are none. I frown at my bird feeder, though I don’t know why I should feel a needling sense of disappointment at the absence of a decapitated head.

Then I head to the main house and clean up the blood on the marble tile in the kitchen from Arthur’s fall.

As soon as I speed through these mundane chores, I’m enacting the plans that kept me tossing in my bed until two in the morning.

I pry the loose floorboard up in the guest room of the cottage, where I hid some of the reminders of my old life when I first arrived in Cape Carnage.

This is a huge risk.