Page 52 of Tourist Season

A weak smile fleets across her lips. My own chest aches when I see it, as though someone has just beaten me up to keep me alive.

“Couldn’t go …” she whispers through lips that tremble with shock.

I tuck the blankets around her and rub her arm as she shakes, in part to keep her conscious and warm, but in part because I feel suddenly unsure of what to say or do or how to act.

“Unfinished business. Need to stab you for that nickname.” When I meet her eyes, they solder to mine.

The gray seems brighter, the gleam that was missing only moments ago now shining in the sun. “Thank you.”

I give her a single nod and break my focus away, but still I feel her watching.

Two crew members from the Coast Guard ship board our boat with a portable defibrillator, and I talk them through what happened and Harper’s condition in a way that feels oddly reassuring in its familiarity.

When they’ve had a chance to assess her, they organize with the sailor and his son to keep her aboard so they can escort us to the marina where an ambulance will be waiting.

And though they keep an eye on Harper’s vitals and ensure she remains stable, a residual panic still ebbs and flows through my veins.

Relief that I can feel her pulse beneath my fingertips as I keep hold of her wrist. Distress and desperation every time her eyes drift closed with fatigue.

Intense, all-consuming fears chew through my thoughts with every moment that passes.

What about secondary drowning? Aspiration pneumonia?

What about infection? Fuck knows what bacteria is already climbing around in her lungs.

What if I broke her ribs during CPR? Her sternum?

Will she have chronic lung damage? What about PTSD? What if—

“ Son ,” the sailor says, shaking my shoulder.

I blink, a haze dispelling from my mind as I look up at him and realize he’s been talking to me for I don’t even know how long.

He gives me a gentle smile as he extends some folded clothes balanced on his other palm.

“I brought you a change of clothes. Might be a little small for you but they’ll fit close enough.

Do you want to go below deck and get yourself settled for a minute? ”

Cold. Stress. It’s the first time I become aware that I’m still soaking wet, shaking beneath a towel that’s appeared on my shoulders without me even realizing it. I look down at Harper, her eyes barely open, her breathing still erratic, a cough racking her body every few minutes.

I shake my head and squeeze her wrist, her pulse still a steady thrum that answers back. “I’m okay. Thank you.”

The man nods, giving my shoulder a sympathetic pat.

“I’ll put them in a bag. You can take them with you to the hospital and change there.

We’re nearly at the marina,” he says, nodding toward the shore.

I follow his gesture to where an ambulance waits by the docks, its lights flashing. “How does that sound?”

“That sounds great, thank you, sir. I appreciate it.”

The man leaves to pack up his gift, and my gaze lingers on the door he disappears through until Harper coughs, drawing my attention back to her. “I’ll be fine,” she whispers. “You can go get changed. I’ll survive a few minutes on my own, don’t worry.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“You don’t have to come with me to the hospital.”

I glare down at her. The spark brightens just a little in her eyes when I do. “Like hell I’m not.”

“But you’ll smell like the sea.”

“That’s supposed to be calming.”

“On the beach, sure.” She coughs, squeezing my hand as she does.

I’m not sure if it’s intentional or just a reflexive tightening of her muscles, but it makes my heart jump all the same.

“You’re going to smell like you rolled around naked in a fish market.

They’ll kick you out for disturbing the other patients. ”

I roll my eyes, and this time she gifts me a weak smile. “I see a near-death experience hasn’t dampened your humor. Pun intended.”

“That was awful. I don’t think they can let you in. You smell like fish and make terrible, ill-timed puns.”

“Do you not want me to come?”

Harper pauses. My heart sinks as though she’s just tossed it right back into the deep water I just pulled her from. “I don’t want you there if it brings back bad memories,” she finally says. “Don’t put yourself through that for me.”

I stare at her, that image of her unseeing eyes still lingering like a nightmare that clings to consciousness long after waking.

And I realize I hadn’t even thought about the hospital and the painful past it could evoke.

But she did. Only moments ago, she died in my arms. Beneath my hands.

And she’d rather face the chaos and stress of a hospital alone than put me through memories that are difficult to bear.

The woman who put me there. The one who left me to die alone in the dark.

I cup her cheek. Her eyes drift closed. She leans into my touch. Squeezes my hand, and this time I know it was on purpose. Her warmth still feels like magic. I brought her back, and nothing I’ve done in my life feels like as much of an accomplishment as that.

“I’m coming with you,” I say, leaning down to place a lingering kiss on her forehead.

When I pull away and look down at her face, it’s as though everything I thought I’d come here for has been stripped away, leaving only one truth behind. One I’m not ready to put into the world. But one that consumes me nonetheless.

I’m in love with the woman I came here to kill.