Page 36 of Tourist Season

Sam was interested in my true identity and my disappearance four years ago when I first went missing, maybe just as much as he’s interested in the story of La Plume now.

I was already trying to disappear before I made it to Maryland and fate intervened to give me the gift of Harper Starling.

But I was careful to do everything I could not to leave a trail here.

Though he’s given no indication that he’s figured out I wound up in Cape Carnage, he’s already spying on the property where I live.

It’s not a stretch that he could recognize me despite the darker hair and stolen name.

But this might also be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to kill the rumor that Arthur is La Plume and get Sam off the old man’s back for good.

And after feeling so fucking helpless at the hospital, it’ll be good to take charge and do something productive to keep my promises.

With a deep breath, I steel myself and commit to my plan.

I pick a few keepsakes from my hiding place that might be interesting to Sam but not conclusive proof that I was here.

An incense holder shaped like a crescent moon.

It lived on the wood-burning stove of the van I shared with Adam.

A Higonokami pocketknife. I used that in a few videos we took when we explained to our followers how we set up camp at the various stops on our cross-country road trip.

The unusual angle of the blade’s tip is easily recognizable to anyone as detail oriented as Sam Porter.

A Texas Tech sweater that was Adam’s. I borrowed it so frequently that he finally declared it mine.

I press my nose to the fibers and inhale.

It doesn’t smell like us anymore. I sigh as I run my fingertips over the embroidered letters.

I haven’t looked at these mementos in at least a couple of years, and there’s something reassuring about their presence in the house.

But even in these last few days, I feel less attached to them.

Maybe I’m not ready to give up some of the more personal relics that I keep hidden in this hole, but as I put the floorboard back, I think maybe I’m ready to let a few of them go.

I put the knife, sweater, and incense holder into a bag along with a few additional supplies, and then head to the garage next to Arthur’s house, borrowing his ancient Jaguar sedan to drive to the abandoned farmhouse off Clarke Road, twenty minutes outside town.

I don’t even know whose land it is. I just know it’s not Arthur’s, and that’s the only thing that matters.

It takes me a moment of staring up at the decaying roof and graffitied siding to convince myself to follow the overgrown path that leads through the weedy lawn.

Every step I take, the memory of vultures in a tree threatens to push me all the way back to the car.

My palms sweat. My heart riots in my ears.

This is my chance to protect Arthur , I tell myself over and over as I hurry over the threshold where the faded white door hangs from rusted hinges.

It’s not the same house. I climb the rotting staircase to the second level.

It doesn’t smell the same. Doesn’t look the same. There’s not even a cellar.

I find a loose floorboard in a bedroom on the second story and ram it with my heel until it shatters.

My pulse is still humming as I take a steadying breath, and with a silent goodbye, I shove my belongings beneath the shattered remains of the splintered wood.

When I’ve snapped a quick photo with my phone, I head outside and take a last look at the house, then I drive back to town.

Once I’m parked a few blocks away from the Capeside Inn to keep Arthur’s distinctive vehicle out of sight, I head to my perch on the hill to hide among the rocks where I first watched Nolan as he left the inn for a run.

His car isn’t in the parking lot now, and I try not to think about where he might have gone.

“It doesn’t fucking matter what that asshole is up to,” I whisper to myself as I log in to my sock puppet account on the Sleuthseekers Discord server.

My eyes drift up to Sam’s rental car, and then to the empty spot next to it, the one that Nolan seems to prefer.

Heat twists behind my navel, that ache from earlier throbbing between my legs.

I wonder what would happen if I broke into Nolan’s room and waited in my lingerie for him to return.

Would he turn and walk away? Or would he pin me to the bed and fuck me so hard I see stars?

What if I brought my Lelo Enigma dual vibrator?

What if— “Oh my fucking God. Get it together, bitch. Stop thinking with your neglected vagina and think with your brain.”

With a shake of my head, I refocus on the device in my hands, tapping out a short private message to Sam. I include the location details of the farmhouse on Clarke Road, claiming I found the items when I was snooping around the abandoned house. Once the photos are sent, I wait.

It takes only a few moments before I receive a reply, and though he seems a little hesitant at first, the excitement is still palpable despite his short messages. In less than ten minutes, Sam and his drone operator are packing up his rental vehicle and leaving the Capeside Inn.

A dark smile creeps across my lips as I jog to Arthur’s car and set off for my next destination.

You’d think the next stage of the plan would be the hardest part.

But really, it’s not as much of a challenge as it seems. Sheriff Yates never likes to keep anyone longer than he must, so it’s likely the charming Mr. McMillan has already been released.

And a guy like that is neither the Capeside Inn nor the bed-and-breakfast type, so chances are he’s staying in the shady Lionshead Motel just off the highway that leads into town.

He’ll either be sleeping off his hangover, or he’ll be in Gus’s Tavern within walking distance of the Lionshead, drinking himself into his next oblivion.

I swing by the dumpster behind Milo’s Pizza first to grab a discarded box, then I start with the Lionshead, betting that it’s early enough in the day that he might not yet be ready for the pub.

When I’m parked just out of sight of the motel, I take out my phone and select the contact for the reception desk.

“Lionshead, how can I help?” a man says after picking up on the second ring.

I know by the timbre of his voice that it’s the young guy who started working there last season, and the wicked grin that’s been lodged on my face since I departed from the Capeside Inn grows a little wider.

He’s the quiet type, a little shy. He’s just there to make enough to pay his rent.

And he doesn’t give a shit about things like rules, or privacy.

“Hey, I’m the delivery driver for Milo’s Pizza,” I say, keeping my voice disaffected.

“Some guy with the last name McMillan ordered delivery to the Lionshead, but Milo’s handwriting is shit and I can’t make out the room number.

He’s not picking up the phone either. Can you tell me which room I’m supposed to go to so Milo doesn’t ride my ass for a late delivery? ”

“Yeah, sure. Give me a second.” My smile could be seen from space. I reach toward the back seat and grab the empty pizza box along with a couple of choice goodies from my bag as the sound of keyboard tapping fills the line. “Room three-twenty.”

“Thanks so much. You’re a lifesaver.”

“You got it.”

I disconnect the line and leave the car with the pizza box in hand, my blood fizzing with adrenaline.

I’m a pizza delivery driver , I tell myself as I walk around the hedges that frame the Lionshead parking lot.

There are a few cars scattered in front of the motel rooms, but all the curtains are closed. There’s no one around.

My attention homes in on the door for Room 320.

I’m meant to be here. I’m just doing my job . And it’s funny how easily you can slip through society when you don’t just tell a lie, but you embrace it. If you make the effort to believe it, often everyone else does too.

I take a deep breath, dim the wicked edge in my smile to something less sinister, and knock three times on the door.

“Pizza delivery,” I call, my voice chipper. A disgruntled groan rumbles on the other side of the door. “Pepperoni with extra cheese? For … McMillan?”

A string of weary expletives and slippers dragging over tile grow louder as he approaches the door.

My expression brightens as the dead bolt turns.

The door swings open and McMillan glares at me, his stained T-shirt and boxers barely covered by a fraying gray robe. “I didn’t order no fuckin’ pizza—”

I lift the pizza box enough that he can see the gun I hold beneath it, the silencer aimed at his navel. Surprise ignites in his bloodshot eyes.

“Come with me, Mr. McMillan,” I say, releasing the safety with a threatening click, “and I might just let you live.”