Page 64 of Tourist Season

I take my time to unwrap her before I carry her to the bath.

This is how I worship her. With warm water and careful strokes of a soft cloth.

With candles and quiet words and delicate touches.

I want to hurt her and I’m grateful she lets me, that she wants me to do it.

But as much as we both crave the pain, I want to look after her too. Maybe more than I ever expected.

When I’m sure she’s all right, we climb into bed, and I pull her into my arms. She falls asleep quickly.

But I don’t.

I quietly slip away before dawn, placing a short note on her pillow with the promise that I’ll return, just in case she has lingering doubts.

Within twenty minutes, I’m standing on the granite ledge, looking toward the light that’s coloring the horizon before the sun crests the distant line between the water and the sky.

And then I start my descent.

My boots sink into the sand as I step down from the last jagged edge of the cliff face and onto the thin strip of beach.

It’s June 25. I’m standing at latitude 44.

6692? N and longitude 67.2594? W. The spring tide is still slowly rolling back from the shore.

I check my watch. 5:22 a.m. Only another ten minutes until it reaches its lowest point, but already I can see the very top of the van from Sam’s blown-up photograph breaking through the waves.

For whatever reason, it was vitally important to Sam to find this vehicle, which must only be visible during the spring low tides when the water is at its lowest. And I need to know why.

I set my bag down and take off my shoes.

Within another few minutes, I’ve stripped off my clothes that cover the wetsuit I rented from Wallie’s Water Sports.

I pull my flippers on, strapping a dive light to my wrist. And then I’m headed for the surf, settling my mask and snorkel over my face as I wade into the crashing white waves.

Even through the wetsuit, the cold sea is a shock.

It soaks through the cuffs and neck, water filling the space between skin and neoprene with a cold film until my body starts to warm it.

Treacherous rocks poke through the water.

Seaweed rolls around me on every swirling wave.

I keep my head up. Stay focused on that dented sheet of rusted metal.

Try not to think about the last time I dove into the sea, or what I nearly lost. I just keep kicking, fighting the pull of the current that tries to drag me down the shore.

I grab the sharp edge of the fiberglass where the window has long since shattered and fallen away, and I hold on.

Not much of the vehicle is visible above the waves, but even with what does sit above the surface, I can tell it’s the roof extender of a camper van.

The original color has bleached, the surface blistered and cracked.

None of the windows have survived, leaving only the holes that once let light into the living space.

I keep a hand gripped to the vehicle as I adjust my snorkel and sink beneath the waves, hoping to find a license plate.

I’m not surprised to find nothing there.

When I’ve surfaced, I start making my way forward. The fiberglass flexes and groans against the corroded welds and screws that hold it to the steel frame of the vehicle as I pull myself along its length.

When I get to the front of the vehicle, I take a deep breath and dive.

Small fish scatter as I keep a hand on the missing driver’s side window and cast my light across the interior.

Seaweed and barnacles and creatures I can’t name have already claimed much of the space.

The metal frame is coated in layers of rust. The fabric of the seats has decayed, leaving behind only strips of upholstery.

There’s a small kitchen area. A bench and table.

What looks like a cast iron wood stove, the thick glass cracked but still in place.

There’s a bed toward the back of the van and a door just beyond it that might lead to a small toilet or storage.

The space is covered in shades of green, filaments of life that seem so vivid in a place that feels like a tomb.

I rise to the surface, take a breath, and dive again.

This time, I head through the front window and enter the interior. Fish scatter. I scan the bottom surface of the van, looking for anything left behind. I even check the kitchen cupboards, one of the doors hanging on to the frame by a single rusted hinge. But there’s nothing.

With another trip to the surface, I dive again.

This time, I head toward the passenger side, staying close to the bottom of the window.

I find the plate that’s fixed to the dashboard.

I clear away the debris with my gloved thumb.

I shine my light on the vehicle identification number.

I can just make out the seventeen-digit alphanumeric code.

I repeat the number over and over until I’m sure I’ll remember it.

I even dive more than once to check that I’ve gotten it correct.

My heart is humming, even though I don’t know what it will tell me.

Maybe nothing. But my instincts say otherwise.

With a final glance around the van’s interior, I rise and swim to shore.

I chant the VIN to myself as I strip off the wetsuit on the deserted thread of beach.

I change quickly, shivering in the cold morning breeze.

As soon as I’m changed, I enter the VIN into my phone, then hook the backpack over my shoulders and start climbing from the sand that will soon be consumed by the incoming tide.

I drive back to Cape Carnage, following the winding road that hugs the cliff.

Before long, I pass the lighthouse, a handful of tourists already hiking up the steps that lead to the red-and-white beacon to the sea.

I drive past houses that are now becoming familiar, with colorful planked siding and intricate trim.

Instead of heading back to Harper’s cottage, I turn toward the Capeside Inn, rolling to a stop in my favorite spot in the parking lot that faces the ocean.

When I turn off my car, I sit and watch in silence for a moment, thinking about that first day I looked across those sparkling waves and imagined all the righteous sins I’d waited so long to commit.

I came here looking to dredge at least one long-hidden secret from the depths of Cape Carnage, but I caught more than I ever bargained for.

I grab my bag and make my way inside the inn, past the little dining area where patrons are smiling over French toast or chatting about the day’s plans as the happy aroma of maple syrup and fresh coffee wafts through the air.

Maybe they don’t even know what’s happened over the last few days.

Maybe they do and just don’t care. They’re on holiday, after all.

Somehow, it seems fitting that Cape Carnage continues on as though untroubled by the dark current snaking through its streets.

I make it to the corridor that leads to my room before Irene can spot me and those questions might end up out in the open.

When I get to my room, I drop my bag by the door and stride toward the small table next to the window with my laptop in hand.

My leg bounces as it powers up. It goes through the slowest update of its entire fucking electronic life, because of course it would pick this exact moment .

By the time I’m finally able to log in, I’m nearly vibrating with impatience.

I google a VIN lookup service and enter the code for the vehicle, followed by my credit card information for a full report.

My finger hesitates for a beat before I hit the return button.

A report comes up with eight previous unnamed owners, the location of the title transfer, and the service history for a 1985 Chevy G20 camper van.

The last change of ownership was five years ago, a private sale in Lubbock, Texas.

I frown at the screen. That vehicle has come a long way.

Though I might have a location and date of sale for what is a rather uncommon vehicle, that’s still not going to tell me who the last owner was.

I run my fingers across my lips, thinking about the way Harper bites her own flesh when she’s nervous or deep in thought.

If Sam had an interest in this particular Chevy G20 … maybe he’s said so.

The Sleuthseekers have accounts on a few social media sites, and though I check through them, I find nothing related to the van. What they post publicly is kept pretty vague. But they must have a place where they speak more openly with one another. Where they share secrets and theories.

With a little more hunting, I find mention of a Discord server.

I create a new account and try to tamp down the disappointment when I have to answer a number of questions and wait for an admin to approve my request to join the Sleuthseekers server.

Who knows how long that will take. With a groan, I rise and put the kettle on, a text from Harper coming through on my phone as I’m waiting for the water to boil.

You’ll probably be happy to know that I’m thinking of you literally every time I move.

I smirk, starting to type a reply when an image quickly follows her message. It’s a photo of her naked upper body, the bars through her nipples gleaming.

I think I’m obsessed.

My cock hardens and I shift, trying to relieve the sudden ache of need.

You’re trying to torture me, aren’t you?

Absolutely. One thousand percent YES.

They’re a little tender but it looks pretty hot, don’t you think?

If they’re sore, maybe I should come and take a closer look.

I’m free after lunch. 1pm?

I check my watch. It’s not quite eight in the morning. The wait is going to be fucking agonizing.

12:30?

You know, I think I’m busy at 1pm, actually. How about 3pm?