Page 56 of Tourist Season

I T’S EARLY EVENING, THE SUN still hidden behind a thick gray veil when I walk to Harper’s cottage.

I hear the electric hedge trimmer in the distance as I head up the flagstone walk and take the path that hugs the cottage and leads to the back garden.

The sound grows louder as I cross the patio.

Christ , I hope she’s not slicing up another tourist to put through her woodchipper—though something about that idea fills me with unexpected excitement.

I’m sure she’d have a good reason and a delightfully unhinged plan. I think.

I’m just about to pass through the garden gate when Arthur appears before me, a startling specter in his three-piece suit and polished shoes with a bespoke cane. His shock of white hair is perfectly coiffed, his bushy brows lowered as he regards me.

“Hello, Mr. Lancaster. You startled me,” I say, opening the gate for him as he’s clearly determined to pass through it.

“You’re the man from the theater,” Arthur says, his sharp eyes slicing across my face.

“That’s right. Nolan Rhodes, sir.” I extend a hand and his expression softens. He gives me a slight nod and leans his weight on his cane as he accepts the handshake. “Is Harper around?”

“Yes. She’s working on the topiaries.”

“How’s that going?”

“Horribly. The moose is an atrocity.”

“I expected as much.”

Arthur gives me a grunt and I tip my head to him, starting to walk in the direction of the sound. His sudden grip on my wrist stops me. “Before you move along, I wonder if you wouldn’t mind doing me a favor?” he asks.

“Certainly. What do you need?”

Arthur doesn’t let go of my arm, instead using it to prompt me back in the direction of Harper’s house. “I’m looking for my bag that Harper was keeping for me. She said I could retrieve it from the cottage, but it might be upstairs and I have difficulty with the staircase. I’m old, you see.”

I chuckle at his dry wit. “No problem,” I say as we make our way toward the cottage with more vigor than I expected from my elderly companion. “What does it look like?”

“Black leather. Looks somewhat like an old doctor’s bag. It has two robins embossed on the side, between the handles.”

“Do you remember where it is, exactly?”

“I … I don’t recall. The guest room, possibly.”

“Okay. I’ll have a look.” I help him lower to a seat at the patio table, then I head into the unlocked back door of the cottage.

The scent of palo santo lingers in the air.

The interior is clean and unfussy, just like it always is.

As I’m heading toward the staircase, I notice one of the white pawns has been moved on the chessboard.

It’s jumped ahead two spaces, waiting for an unseen opponent to play.

I take the stairs by twos, reluctant to leave Arthur waiting in the cooling air and growing fog.

I’ve seen the guest room before, but this is the first time I’ve been inside.

It’s a simple layout, just a bed and a small dresser, a worn desk with some sewing supplies and papers resting beneath a window.

I check the closet first, and I find the bag almost immediately beneath the folded blankets and winter clothes, taking it downstairs and out the back to where Arthur waits at the table, fidgeting with his crooked fingers.

As soon as he sees it in my hands, his expression brightens, and he rises to his feet.

“Good lad,” he says, nearly yanking the bag out of my hand when I offer it. “Thank you. You saved my poor knees. I’m old, you see.”

“Yes, I think you might have mentioned that.”

“Your short-term memory is the pits when you’re so old your bones are crumbling to dust.” He waves me off as I offer an arm with a chuckle. I’d assumed he wanted to go back to the house, but instead he heads toward the path that leads to the front of the cottage.

“Where are you going?” I call after him.

“Things to attend to, my boy. Many thanks for your assistance.” Arthur doesn’t turn as he raises his cane in a wave, then disappears around the side of the cottage, the bag gripped tight in his free hand.

I wait until the metronomic cadence of his cane tapping the flagstones disappears.

Once I’m reasonably sure he’s successfully made it safely off the property, I go on the hunt for Harper, finding her near the main driveway to the house.

She doesn’t realize I’m close by, so I take a moment to just watch her.

She’s partway up a stepladder, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, a pair of safety goggles over her eyes.

Her favorite Welcome to Cape Carnage shirt and black overalls are covered in leafy debris.

She’s wielding an orange hedge trimmer with great concentration but very little skill.

If this bush was ever meant to be a moose, I can’t see it.

It looks more like an abstract, rabid dog.

But she doesn’t give up. Not even when she accidentally cuts off half its head.

It takes me a moment to realize I’m smiling.

I still don’t understand how or when this happened.

Weeks ago, I’d have given anything to get this close and use her own tool as a weapon against her.

And now I’m standing here with a grin, admiring her determination.

She’s nothing like what I expected. I don’t see a monster when I look at her now.

I see someone so loyal that I know she’ll stay here until dark if she has to, trying to get it right for Arthur.

I see someone who is resilient. Someone who is fierce when she needs to be, but kind when it’s deserved.

Maybe, in my case, even when it’s not. And I can’t get enough of her, even if it just means watching from a distance.

When she gives up her efforts long enough to pause for a vicious cough, one that still plagues her after the near-drowning a few days ago, I finally approach.

Though it takes a moment to convince her to relinquish the trimmer and call it a day, she does.

I take her back to the cottage. Make us dinner as she has a shower.

I grab her as soon as she’s out of the bathroom and haul her over my shoulder to the sound of her laughing shriek.

I deposit her on the couch and spread her legs wide and eat her pussy until she’s screaming my name.

Then I flip her over and fuck her hard, just the way she likes.

When I twist my fist in her hair and tug, she moans.

When I slap her ass, she cries out for more.

When I slide a hand across her throat and squeeze, her pussy tightens around my cock and she comes again, pulling me into oblivion with her as I fill her until I have nothing left to give.

I don’t tell her, but I want to do this every day.

Not just fuck her until she’s boneless and trembling against me.

It’s everything else too. Taking care of her afterward.

Reheating our cooling pasta. Sitting across from each other.

Talking. Learning the things she likes. Things she worries about.

I find myself wondering how I could take some of the other burdens she carries now that there are only four bodies left to find.

We’ll be done in a matter of days, and then what happens?

She could clearly use help, whether it’s with Arthur or navigating the tourist season or even those fucking topiaries.

But I don’t live even remotely close to Carnage.

My life in Tennessee seems so distant from my reality these past few weeks.

And every time I try to remind myself that my stay here is only temporary, I find I only push those thoughts away.

There are more important things to focus on right now , I tell myself. You can worry about home later.

But what if I still don’t want to worry about home when everything else passes? I already told Harper that I’m not letting her get away from me. And I meant it. But what does that look like? How does that work? Is it something she even thinks about?

I’m still tossing these questions around after dinner. We’re biding our time until evening deepens to night, at which point I’ll head back to the inn to retrieve the car for our next escapade at the Ballantyne River. At least, that’s the plan until a call comes through on Harper’s phone.

“Hey, Lukas,” she says, her tone nonchalant as she rises from our game of cribbage to put the kettle on for a fresh pot of tea. “What’s up?”

“Have you talked to Arthur?” he says over the speaker. I can detect the tone of concern, though he tries to hide it. And I can see in her face that she’s worried, too.

“A few hours ago, yeah. Maybe about seven o’clock. Why?”

“I texted him a few times to check in, but he hasn’t responded. He didn’t pick up when I called, either. Would you mind checking the house? I’m worried he had another fall.”

Harper is already grabbing her jacket and sliding her work boots on when she gives him a quick reply and hangs up. And I’m right on her heels.

“This isn’t like him,” she says as she marches through the back garden. A heavy fog has descended upon us, and I can’t even see the main house through the thick, moonlit mist. There are no lights on inside to guide us either.

“Maybe he got tied up with something in town.”

Harper looks up at me with a raised brow. “What do you mean?”

Unease trickles through my veins. I swallow, laying a hand on Harper’s arm to stop her.

I already know it. I’ve made a fucking colossal mistake.

“I saw him when I first arrived,” I say. “He said you told him to grab his bag from the cottage—”

“No—”

“And he asked if I could find it upstairs for him—”

“ Oh no no no —”

“So … I gave it to him. And then he said he had ‘things to attend to.’”

“Nolan,” she shrieks, whacking my arm with a thud. “That’s his fucking murder bag. He hates going into the cottage, and he played you like an amateur to get it.”