Page 42 of Tourist Season

“Is it?” I face forward, keeping my eyes on the reprieve of the ordering counter, which seems like a continent away with several people still in line before me.

Sam stands at my side. I don’t know why it bothers me so much that people around us could think we’re some cute little couple on a quirky first date, me with my striped skirt and retro heels and red bow, Sam with his blond hair combed into place and button-up navy shirt and features that I qualify as “sensibly handsome.” Fuck, I hate the idea that people might think we’re together, though I don’t know why. It feels like a skin I need to shed.

I turn the opposite way from Sam to look over my shoulder, but I can’t see the familiar face I’m searching for. The person who would feel right at my side.

First, I can’t get rid of Nolan. And suddenly, it’s his presence I crave.

“You don’t look like a Harper,” Sam says, pulling my attention back to him.

He leans a little closer to me as we move a step forward toward the counter.

His voice is low and earnest when he says, “The only Harper Starling your age was presumed dead when her car crashed into the sea after a hit-and-run accident in Maryland four years ago.”

“What a weird thing to say to a complete stranger.” Adrenaline siphons into my veins. My stomach churns. A swallow drags down my throat before I do my best to pin Sam with an unwavering stare. “I guess your data is wrong. Because I didn’t hit anyone and I’m certainly not dead.”

“Or maybe you’re just a different kind of ghost,” he says, his voice barely more than a whisper. He stares back at me as though trying to reach the most hidden crevices of my soul. “Maybe one who goes by an entirely different name?”

My lungs seize around air. “What do you want?” I ask, reining in the sting in my throat.

“The truth.”

“My name is Harper, and Arthur Lancaster is not La Plume. There you go. Truth has been served. You can leave now.”

“From what I understand, you live in his cottage.”

“I’m his gardener. But I’m sure you know that too.”

“So you don’t have a vested interest in protecting him?”

“Arthur is an elderly man who is dying . He was just released from the hospital. Of course I want to protect him from anyone like you who’s clearly got him all wrong,” I hiss, managing to restrain my knowledge of whispers of McMillan’s disappearance.

Those rumors already hit the Sleuthseekers Discord server thanks to one of my sock puppet accounts.

“Leave him alone. He and I have both been through enough .”

I feel the eyes of nearby patrons turn to me with the tension that hangs in the air, even if my words were too quiet to hear.

Furious tears blur my vision no matter how hard I try to suppress them.

Sam’s expression softens when he sees them, and for some reason, that angers me even more.

I step forward to the counter and try to focus all my attention on calmly ordering Arthur’s candy, hoping Sam will leave.

But he doesn’t. When I turn with the Milk Duds in hand to stalk back to the theater, he’s right behind me, blocking me in among the crowd.

“Look, I’m sorry. That was unfair. I don’t mean to upset you, truly.

I’m just looking for answers. I know something strange is going on in Cape Carnage.

You’ve been here long enough, you must know it too.

And you could be in danger here.” Sam slides a hand into his pocket and withdraws a business card, holding it up between us.

“Please. I just want to talk. Even if it’s off the record.

You could be the key to understanding what’s really happening in this town.

” I stare at him, the card lodged like a white thorn in my peripheral vision.

Someone in line behind us clears their throat in a wordless prompt to encourage us out of the way.

But Sam and I remain unmoving. “Please,” he finally whispers.

I take the card and leave.

“I found some things that I think you might find familiar,” he says before I can move out of earshot.

I turn and scrutinize Sam with a cautionary glare.

But the look he gives me is a warning in reply.

“They were hidden in an old house on Clarke Road. I’ll keep them safe until you’re ready to talk about how they got there and why they suddenly showed up three days ago. ”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” I say. With a final nod, I give him my coldest stare, and then I walk away.

Breaths shudder in my lungs as I weave through the patrons and make my way back to the auditorium entrance.

My hands are shaking. Sweat itches at the nape of my neck.

I suck in air like I’m drowning, trying to calm my raging pulse.

With a longing look toward the entrance of the ladies’ restroom, where I’m tempted to let tears fall in the privacy of a bathroom stall, I keep going, reluctant to leave Arthur alone with Nolan for longer than necessary.

And when I sidestep my way back to my seat, that concern is proven to be valid.

“Why are you there?” I ask, pointing to where Arthur sits. There’s an empty space between him and Nolan. “You’re supposed to be in that seat. Next to him .”

“It’s the tourists. They kept trying to take that seat,” Arthur hisses at me in a whisper of disgust. He waves a hand in Nolan’s direction without looking his way. “This man suggested I move over one place and he would help me keep the one in between us free for you, so I obliged.”

“But I promised you Milk Duds,” I say, rattling the box.

“He offered me Maltesers.”

Arthur gives me a smug look as he digs into the half-eaten pack of Maltesers for another ball of chocolate-coated malted milk.

My mouth drops open. Fucking traitor . This is the last thing I need after the encounter with Sam Porter in the lobby.

My thoughts are already spiraling through my grasp, pinging through my brain as though my skull can’t contain them.

I can’t even manage a cohesive retort. I just close my mouth and shimmy past Arthur to drop into the empty seat between him and Nolan.

“I thought you were getting popcorn,” Nolan says, though I barely register his words, my thoughts consumed by the encounter in the lobby as I scan the audience in my hunt for Sam.

“Yeah … popcorn. I was …”

I don’t know where Sam went. Though I turn enough to dart a glance behind me, I face forward after only a moment, unwilling to let him see how much he’s rattled me if he’s still watching.

I try to anchor my focus to the stage where the drawn curtains rustle, the stagehands on the other side finalizing their preparations for the show.

How do I keep my past out of this place? How do I stay hidden on the other side of the curtain when someone is gripping the rope, ready to pull back the darkness and force me into the light? What more will everyone be able to see if he thrusts me onto that stage?

“Harper.” It’s the concern in Nolan’s voice that shoves me out of the alternate realm I’ve dropped into and back into the real world. It’s as though he doesn’t even try to hide it. Like it’s real. Not part of a game, not a trick. Not a lie.

“What?” I ask, though it comes out weaker than I wanted it to.

Nolan searches my face. There’s darkness in his eyes. It has an edge that will cut to the bone, if I let it. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” I try to break my attention away, but it returns to him as though I can’t fight the pull of his tide. He’s washing me out to sea. “I’m fine.”

“What happened?” he repeats. He lays a hand on my arm. I swear it sends a current all the way to the base of my spine.

I give him the slightest shake of my head. Maybe most people wouldn’t even notice. But I know he does. When I bite my lip, his gaze drops to the motion. “It’s nothing you can fix.”

“Who are you?” Arthur demands on the other side of me. We both turn toward the elderly man sitting to my right. Suspicion is a thin veil for the confusion in the cataract haze of his cloudy gray eyes. “Are you bothering my daughter?”

A sting bites at the back of my throat. I can see Arthur trying to match up connections that don’t fit.

Flickers of emotion pass across his face.

He knows I’m not Poppy. But he also knows he loves me like the daughter who was stolen from him.

Just like I love him like the father I lost. Like the friend I needed most when I was alone in the world.

It’s fucking heartbreaking to know that someday soon, he won’t remember me at all.

But the hardest moments of Arthur’s dementia are the ones like this, where his most painful memories are dragged out to sea and muddled in the churning waters of time, only to crash in on him once more.

It’s the cycle of forgetting life’s most devastating moments and jumbling them up with the present.

And then, most cruelly of all, remembering them all over again.

When I return my attention to Nolan, his brow is furrowed, his eyes searching.

They traverse every detail of my face, hunting through flesh and bone.

I’m not sure what he sees. Maybe a wisp of panic, though I do my best to hide it.

I hate the thought of him finding the chinks in Arthur’s formidable armor.

I hate the thought of him finding a weakness in me .

I know he sees something beneath the unyielding mask I’m trying and failing to maintain.

There’s some kind of awareness blooming in his features.

It’s in the lines that deepen between his brows.

It’s in the curves and creases of his eyes.

It’s in the flesh of his lips as they part to let a breath slide free.

And then, with a blink, his expression clears.

His hand lifts from my arm. He leans forward and extends it over my lap to Arthur with a faint but welcoming smile.

“I’m sorry, I forgot to introduce myself.

I’m Nolan Rhodes, sir. Pleased to meet you. ”

Arthur looks to me as though searching for reassurance before shaking Nolan’s hand.

The lights dim. The two men settle back into their seats at my sides. A spotlight flicks on. The band starts up, wind instruments in a melody that weaves through hushed whispers and quiet coughs and shuffling fabric.

Nolan’s hand finds mine in the dark. He doesn’t look over to see a tear slide down my cheek. But he squeezes my hand like he knows it’s there. I close my eyes. And I can almost see it, the way a little light glimmers in my heart. His touch is a beacon in the night.

The curtains slide back from the stage.

And then the real show begins.