Page 58 of Tourist Season

Arthur’s jaw works as he chews through his thoughts, his white brows lowering as a look of wrath descends on his face. “Sarah Winkle. That insipid, talentless busybody.”

Harper breathes a laugh, but sniffles as she nods.

Though she tries to be discreet as she swipes the edge of her finger beneath her lashes, grief and worry still shine in her eyes.

“Yeah. She’s a hack. We’d better be sure you like the moose, it’s been giving me some trouble. Maybe you can give me some pointers.”

“A moose, yes.” Though he looks tired, Arthur seems intrigued by the idea.

The light that was absent from his eyes returns just a little, like a dim spark among ashes.

For a long moment, he stares at the nearest gravestone, still chewing at his bottom lip just the same way Harper does when she’s lost in thought.

And watching her watch him, I can understand.

It’s not just a friendship. It’s a kinship.

Harper takes a step closer, looping Arthur’s hand over her arm. “I can take you home now. We can get you cleaned up. I’ll polish up those Christina Riccis for you. Looks like you got a little blood on them.”

“Stefano Riccis, you recalcitrant clown.”

“My bad. So, do you want to tell me what happened?”

“That man,” he says as she starts leading him toward the car. “The man with the hideous little dog. He hit me.”

“I can see that. You’re a little cut up.”

“I’m an old man, Harper. He hit an elderly man . Uncouth fiend, coming into our town to let his witless canine defecate everywhere and then strike the elderly of Cape Carnage. I despise him.”

“Well, he deserved what he got,” Harper says, letting a weighted beat of silence pass between them. “He did deserve it … right …?”

“Yes. Of course he did. Violent, terrible little man.”

I gather up the syringe and the scattered vials, placing them in Arthur’s bag before I follow.

I slide the bag behind the driver’s seat.

As soon as I’m done, I return to the body so I don’t risk further agitating Arthur with my presence.

The rest of their conversation only comes in bits and pieces as Harper settles Arthur into the passenger seat, bringing a blanket from the trunk to lay over his lap before helping him with the seat belt.

When she seems sure he’s comfortable, she closes the door and strides back to the family plot, returning to face me where I stand next to the cooling corpse.

“Oh my God, this is bad,” she says, her voice hushed and strained as she drags her hands down her face. “It’s so super bad. Arthur might as well have carved his name right into the dude’s forehead. I can actually see the shape of his fucking cane handle.”

We both lean a little closer to the body. Sure enough, the outline of the distinctive curved handle and wolf’s head embellishment of Arthur’s cane is imprinted right there on his skin.

“Christ,” I hiss on a long exhale as we both straighten. “What do we do with the dog?”

Harper frowns, then bends to pick it up.

“I’ll take”—she reads the dog’s name tag, then rolls her eyes—“Killer Queenie—Jesus fucking Christ, that’s the worst—back to Maria’s house.

That’s where the guy was staying. If I leave the gate open a bit, his wife will probably figure Queenie here made her way home on her own.

Hopefully …” She shifts her attention toward the car and then to the body before returning her gaze to me. “Are you sure about this?”

“Yeah, absolutely. Take Arthur home and get him settled, and I’ll be back as soon as I can.

I’ll keep you posted.” Harper nods once, but she doesn’t move, not even when I come closer.

“Be careful,” I say, staring down at her.

She gives me a weak smile. I run my hand over her hair and press a kiss to her forehead before I let her go. “Everything will be fine.”

With another slight nod, she takes a step back, and another, and then finally she turns and walks away.

As soon as she’s gone, I run.

I leave the main cemetery gate ajar just enough that I hope it will remain unnoticed, but will be quick for me to open when I return with my vehicle. And then I race to the inn as fast as my body will let me.

By the time I reach my room, my knee is throbbing and my shirt is sticking to my skin, dampened with sweat.

I don’t just grab the things I think I’ll need to get rid of the unknown man.

I grab everything . I’d already gotten rid of most of the food in the fridge and packed some of my bags in the process of working my way toward this decision. But now I know.

I could run. I could disappear in the fog and never think of Cape Carnage again.

But I will not leave Harper.

Not with Sam closing in. Not with Arthur causing chaos.

She can’t do this on her own. Whether she likes it or not, I’m staying at her place.

I’ll sleep on the fucking floor if I have to.

If tonight has proven anything, it’s that she is not safe.

Even Arthur is becoming a threat to her well-being.

And I will not let her endure this alone.

I rush with my suitcases through the empty lobby, placing them in my rental car before I head back to my room for my final two bags, the ones that are stocked with our nightly supplies—rope and collapsible shovels, duct tape and bug spray, the camp stove and hot chocolate.

With a bag in each hand, I jog back to my vehicle and start loading them into the back, my thoughts consumed by Harper and everything I have to do at the cemetery to get rid of the body and ensure her secrets stay hidden.

“Well, I’ll say,” I hear Sam’s voice from behind me. “That looks like a serial killer kit if I ever saw one.”

I turn slowly, coming face-to-face with the muzzle of a gun.

“Evening, Sam. That’s an aggressive way to say hello.” I slowly start to raise my hands. When they’re at chest height, I strike out with my right hand, hoping to snatch the gun from his hand.

But Sam is faster than I expected.

With a kick I don’t even see coming, he nails my left knee with a vicious strike. I go down hard on the asphalt.

“Oops. That wouldn’t be your bad leg, would it?”

Deep breaths shudder through my lungs. I struggle to focus on the asphalt beneath my palms. It’s not just the agonizing burn in my knee. It’s not the wound that’s never fully healed that darkens the edges of my vision. It’s the rage. Sam knows my weaknesses and he’s willing to strike them.

A terrible question blares through my thoughts like an alarm: How many weaknesses is he ready to exploit?

Though it takes me a moment, I force myself through the searing pain. With a hand braced to the bumper, I rise and face Sam once more.

“I started looking into you,” Sam says. His gun is steady. His eyes determined. A little smile of triumph lifts one corner of his lips. “The more I started digging, the more interesting things I started to find.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His smile grows darker. More boastful. He shifts his weight, the camera bag on his hip following the motion. “I’m sure you don’t. But you’re going to get into your car and drive exactly where I tell you to go. And then we’ll have a talk and see if I can jog your memory.”

I take a step closer, and he takes one back, firming his grip on his weapon. “And if I don’t?” I ask.

“Well, I guess I shoot you. It would probably be pretty believable that I acted in self-defense, all things considered. Especially since Sheriff Yates isn’t known for his investigative skills, you know?

So whether you live or die is up to you.

But either way, if you don’t come with me, I’ll hand everything I have straight to the FBI.

I’ll expose everything I know about you,” he says as his thumb shifts to release the safety from the gun. “ And Harper Starling.”