Page 48 of Tourist Season

“Good to know. Well,” he says, placing his Porter Productions ball cap on his head, “I’d better run.

See you around.” With a little salute, Sam pivots and starts walking toward the door.

But he only takes a few steps before he turns to face me once more.

My stomach drops through my torso at the glint I catch in his eyes.

“One more question,” he says, barely able to contain the smile that lights up his face with too much electrified energy.

He jerks his chin in my direction, his eyes fused to my elbow.

“Does Wallie rent out padding, too? The granite around here is pretty unforgiving. Wouldn’t want to sideline myself with an injury when I have so much work to do, you know …

? Say … is that how you got that nasty scar? Mountain biking?”

“No,” I say, that single word hanging in the air as I lay my napkin next to my empty plate. I slide my hand back under the table, clenching my fist in the shadows.

“A story for another time, I guess.” Sam tips the brim of his hat, and when I give him the slightest nod in reply, he turns on his heel and leaves.

I watch the door, barely blinking. When I’m sure he won’t traipse back through it, I stride to my room with singular focus guiding my path.

As soon as I have my tools in hand, I head to the opposite side of the hotel, taking the steps to the second floor by twos.

When I arrive at Room 202, I cast a quick look over my shoulder and then slide the snap gun and pin into the lock.

With just a few clicks, the mechanism inside the lock gives way.

I push the door open just enough to scan the darkened interior, and then I slip into Sam’s hotel room.

Sam has a smaller room than mine, and he doesn’t keep it very organized.

His luggage is propped open, clothes strewn haphazardly in its interior and hanging off the lid.

Papers are scattered across the desk. A small printer sits on the dresser next to discarded socks and stacks of fresh paper.

The scent of stale food lingers in the stagnant air.

There’s a tangle of charging cables and extra camera batteries plugged into the wall sockets.

A pizza box sits on the counter of the little kitchenette, dirty dishes piled onto its grease-stained lid.

I crinkle my nose as I survey the space, then head toward the desk.

I’m not sure what I’m looking for. I just know I need something . An indication of what he’s really after. A next move. Something that will tell me how to protect Harper.

The first papers I skim are notes about shots he’s already taken for the documentary, places for cuts and voice-overs. There’s a log of dates and locations, including Lancaster Manor and the Ballantyne River property. A list of names for interview subjects.

I skim paper after paper, but nothing clicks into place.

Not until I find a printout of a tide chart. Low tides and high tides. Times of day. Measurements in feet and meters.

At the next spring tide, Arthur Lancaster’s biggest secret will surface, and even he doesn’t realize just how big it is , Sam’s words from the day I saw him filming Lancaster Manor in the fog hook into my thoughts, refusing to come loose.

I take out my phone and capture a photo of the chart, then move on to the next paper in the stack, this one a grainy, black-and-white photograph that’s been blown up so that it focuses on the background of the shot and not its subjects.

The edge of the social media platform frame is still visible on the bottom half of the page, the username partially cut off, but still legible.

The focal point in the center of the paper is a slice of the coastline, the cliffs plunging into the sea.

The water has peeled back from the stone, leaving a sliver of glistening beach behind.

And peeking from the edge of the waves, reaching from the shallows, is something buried in the sand.

Something unnatural, made by a human hand.

The distinctive top of what looks like a crumpled camper van.

My frown deepens and I flip the page over. There are dates scrawled on the back beneath a header that says, Spring Tides, Extreme Lows . And then a list.

May 11th. May 27th. June 10th. June 25th. July 11th.

The dates extend all the way to the end of August, following the cyclical progression of low spring tides, when the sun, moon, and Earth are in a straight line to exert the most force on ocean waters. But it’s the next upcoming date that concerns me the most. It’s circled, and beneath it:

5:32 AM low tide, 44.6692? N, 67.2594? W

I take a picture of both sides of the page, then I flip through the next papers. A few are old photos of a younger Arthur. A couple are newspaper articles from when Arthur’s daughter was murdered. And then I find something that chills my blood into jagged crystals of ice.

Photographs of Harper.

Harper walking down the street in her plaid shirt.

Harper hanging baskets of flowers on Main Street.

Harper buying supplies at Craft-A-Corpse, a fake torso tucked under her arm, mannequin limbs jutting from the bag in her other hand.

Harper in the skirt she wore last night, waiting in line outside the theater.

The pages have been printed out from digital images, the back of each one labeled with notes.

Dates. Times. Locations. Observations about her mood or behavior.

Looks upset, maybe crying, walking fast, leaving Maya’s Magical Mixtures , the note says on the back of the photo of her in the plaid shirt.

Even notes about her mannerisms. Biting her bottom lip . Anxious? Check against older videos.

My hands shake with the effort of not tearing the paper to shreds.

Sam Porter shouldn’t know these intimate details.

What she looks like when she’s upset. How her eyes seem to glow when she’s angry.

That she was in tears when she left our conversation at Maya’s shop.

That she bites her lip when she’s worried.

He has no right to know these things. To follow her.

Watch her. Hoard these little details. He hasn’t earned them.

Not her ephemeral trust, not her fierce loyalty.

She didn’t give those to him. Not like she has to me.

He’s crept into her territory. And he thinks he knows these things and what they mean. But there’s one detail he clearly hasn’t captured:

She is mine .

I slam my fist onto the desk.

How much more does he know? What has he seen?

She can’t be safe here, and I know she’s never going to leave Arthur on his own with someone like Porter lurking in her domain.

I’m desperate to tear his bones out through his skin, but I believe what Harper said.

If we kill him, we could risk the whole Sleuthseeker organization descending on this town.

Though I cycle through every option, I can’t see a clear solution.

I manage to gather my thoughts just long enough to skim the rest of the documents, though I barely digest what I’m reading through the haze of swirling rage and panic.

Satisfied that I’ve seen enough, I put the papers back the way I found them.

After a quick search of the wardrobe and dresser turns up empty, I head to the door, taking a moment to try to regain some semblance of composure.

I run my fingers through my hair, but my hand still shakes.

I take a calming breath, but my heart hammers at every bone.

When I finally give up trying to wrangle my distress, I check the peephole, then open the door and step across the threshold.

I’m halfway down the hallway when I hear footsteps climbing the stairs. I freeze, but there’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide. There’s no way I can get back into Sam’s room in time, the door already closed and locked behind me. And if it’s him …?

I keep walking, hoping it will look like I’m meant to be here as my heart claws across my rib cage, protesting my innocence with every beat.

I’m nearly at the end of the corridor when Sheriff Yates comes into view.

There’s a momentary burst of surprise in his eyes, before a faint smile appears, one that’s both professional but detached, none of it reaching his eyes.

“Mr. Roan,” he says with a nod.

“Rhodes,” I correct him, and his smile brightens.

“Ah, yes,” he says. “ Rhodes . All okay?”

No. I’m a fucking mess and I’m not sure what my face is doing. “Yes, sir. Yourself?”

Yates scratches his graying stubble, glancing past me to the door I just walked through a moment ago.

“You know, busy day planned with the carnival. Thought I’d see if I could catch Mr. Porter for a moment before he goes off on his next adventure for the day.

You’re on this floor too? Don’t know as I’d want Mr. Porter for a neighbor, personally. ”

“No, sir. Just stopped by to give him some information on mountain biking in the area,” I say, figuring there’s no point in lying about my room location just in case Sheriff Yates calls my bluff.

Though I keep my expression neutral, the panic churning through my guts only moments ago becomes a whirlpool I can’t swim my way free from.

Has Yates come to see Sam before, when I was occupied and didn’t know it?

What if he’s been tracking Sam’s movements too?

What if they’re collaborating and I somehow missed the signs?

“Well,” I say, resisting the urge to curl my hands into tight fists.

“I just tried knocking but no one answered, so I think you might be too late.”

“Huh. Could’ve sworn I heard a door close, not a knock.”

“Sound travels strangely in these old places, I guess.”

His smile might stretch just a little, but I don’t get the impression that Yates is convinced. “Yeah. You’re probably right.”

With a tight nod, I resume my path toward the stairs, coming closer to Yates with every step.

He seems to fill up too much space with his height and his uniform and his probing eyes that follow my motion.

Just as I’m about to pass him, he clamps a hand down on my shoulder.

I try not to flinch as he squeezes, his grip just over the wound still healing there.

“Heard you went on a date with Miss Harper Starling, is that correct?”

“Not sure if you could call it a date, sir,” I say, unease prickling across my skin. My wound sings to him with pain, as though it’s whispering all my secrets into his palm. “But we had dinner last night, yes.”

“Well, I hope it was a nice evening, because she sure could use a break. She’s a good girl.

Heard she was with Mr. Lancaster in the hospital when a tourist caused a ruckus in the emergency room.

I hope she wasn’t too rattled.” He gives a shake of his head, concern creasing his brow before it smooths.

“Say, you wouldn’t know anything about a man named Sean McMillan, would you? ”

My eyes narrow. I shake my head. “Doesn’t ring any bells, sir.”

“Hmm. Didn’t think so.” He squeezes my shoulder and then removes his hand, giving me a final pat before his hand drops to his side to rest on his holster. “Just seems odd. First Jake disappears. Now this McMillan character seems to vanish without a trace.”

“Sorry I can’t be of more help.”

“No matter. They’ll turn up somewhere eventually, I’m sure.”

We’re locked into a stare that lasts a beat too long, like a single note that lingers when the rest of the song has finished.

“I’ll be sure to let you know if I hear anything,” I finally say, and Yates’s face transforms with a welcoming smile.

It’s unnerving after the cold that seemed to spread through the air between us just a moment ago.

“I appreciate you, son. Take care.” I give him a single nod. And then I walk away. I’m nearly at the end of the corridor when he stops me dead as he says, “Oh, and wish Harper luck at the races for me today. She’s got a lot on her plate. I know you’ll be good to her … right …?”

I pin him with an assessing look over my shoulder. “Yes. Of course, sir.”

That smile of his broadens. But it still doesn’t reach his eyes.

With a final tip of my head, I leave Yates standing in the hall.

When I’m at the bottom of the stairs, I wait in the shadows, listening for Yates to follow. But he doesn’t show.