You want to kill her too, I remind myself. You just want her to yourself, that’s all.
“But the way I see it,” Sam continues, breaking me free from the storm that’s rolling through my thoughts, “if Poppy Lancaster came across a secret her father was hiding, who says he didn’t kill her to keep himself hidden? What better way to throw suspicion off himself than to murder her with the same method and then cover his tracks with a weak alibi and the burden of a grandchild? And then if he changed his modus operandi entirely after murdering Poppy, he could have kept killing in Cape Carnage without ever being caught.”
“I thought serial killers don’t really change their methods. You really think he completely gave up his pattern and managed to stick to it all this time?”
Sam’s brows knit and he tugs the zipper of the camera case closed with more force than necessary. “It’s not totally unheard of,” he says, his eyes meeting mine only briefly, as though he’s struggling to hide his irritation at my dismissive comment. “He’s a smart guy. If he really did kill his own daughter to remain undetected, changing his pattern isn’t much of a stretch. He wouldn’t be the first to do so.”
“Interesting. You know more about this stuff than me, that’s for sure,” I say, and he preens at the acknowledgment. “Guess that makes sense if the disappearances around here haven’t stopped, like you were saying.”
“Exactly. And the police aren’t going to get off their asses and do anything to solve it. They only care about keeping tourism alive and the dollars flowing. It’s not like they’d want to bring attention to it, you know? Cape Carnage used to be just another sleepy little seaside town on the slow path to abandonment until several years ago, when they elected Mayor Patel and she ushered in the plans that overhauled its tourism industry. They’re making money hand over fist now with all the weird and creepy Carnage shit. And this town belongs to Arthur Lancaster, just like it’s belonged to the generations before him.”
Arthur.
I fight to keep a devious grin from slipping across my features and unmasking my hidden desires. Harper Starling might have taken my most prized possession, but I have something just as powerful. I have a wolf on a chain. One who has scented his precious beast. One who clearly will not be deterred from flushing out his prey. Arthur Lancaster.
“I mean, I guess that all makes sense,” I say, trying to temper my excitement with notes of skepticism. “All you need is proof, I guess.”
Sam slips the tripod into a carrying case and slings the camera bag over his shoulder. “I have something better. I have the story of a lifetime. And all I have to do is wait for the sun and moon and sea to align to get it. At the next spring tide, Arthur Lancaster’s biggest secret will surface, and even he doesn’t realize just how big it is.”
“Spring tide?” I ask. But Sam doesn’t answer. He just smiles in a way that’s meant to bait and control, to keep me hooked on a line he’s not ready to reel in.
He claps me on the shoulder, a gesture that should feel friendly, but seems hollow. “Need a ride back to the inn?”
“Nah,” I reply. “Thanks, though. I’ll keep going for a bit.”
“See you around.” With a tip of the brim of his hat, Sam heads to his car. I watch him drive off in the rain. I wait until the road descends into silence. In nothing more than a handful of heartbeats, it’s just me and the manor on the hill. It’s the branches that reach toward me in the mist, offering their secrets. It’s the ghosts that Harper Starling can’t outrun.
A raven caws in the fog. A throaty diesel engine starts up from the direction of the little stone cottage.
I smile.
DESCENTHarper
“GOOD BOY,” MORPHEUS SAYS ABOVE the rumble of the tractor engine as he picks at the mulched flesh on my gloved palm. “Pretty murder bird.”
I shake the glove off my other hand, and with a slow and fluid motion, I raise it to pet his back. “That’s right. You are a pretty murder bird.” His feathers shimmer beneath my fingertips, iridescent blues and greens and purples vibrant despite the dim light of the overcast sky. I turn and set him down on the garden wall with a hunk of Jake Hornell’s mangled right hand to eat. “I’ll bring you some more treats in a minute.”
I check my watch and press my arm against the gun that’s holstered at my side to ensure it’s still there, as though it could simply disappear and leave me unarmed. It’s nearly noon, almost an hour since I made it home from the the Capeside Inn. Nolan has probably finished his jog by now, and who knows how long it will be until he realizes I was there. It could be days, depending on how often he needs to use his bag of tricks. He could be checking his safe even less frequently if he’s here for several weeks. Maybe he doesn’t indulge in frequent scrapbooking. And it’s not like I can wait around all day until he figures it out and either leaves town like he should or comes to Lancaster Manor to get himself killed.
I probably should have planned this better. Bought some cameras and hidden them in his room, perhaps. Taken his point about communication and written a more comprehensive letter. Spelled out my almost-innocence. I could have made it clear that he’s right—I am no saint. I did leave him behind on that road, after all. I left him to die so I could start a new life. But I’m not the person he thinks I am. And I will not break my word to Arthur. I’m not about to give up the life I’ve worked so hard to create just because he’s mistaken one monster for another.
I don’t owe Nolan Rhodes, or anyone else, an explanation. Not anymore. I have a town to protect from shitty tourists and an elderly serial killer with memory loss to look after, for fucksakes. I can’t put my whole life on hold for some ridiculously hot psychopath who wants to kill me.
“This is not the best use of my time. So fuck that guy and his murder dimples,” I say to Jake’s severed hand, trying to rid myself of the memory of Nolan’s smile in the coffee shop and the way it ignited a dormant, long-neglected flame in me. I fold Jake’s fingers down, leaving only the middle finger upright in a fuck you gesture, then I toss it into Cookie Monster’s hopper. He’s one person to wind up in my woodchipper that I actually do feel a bit bad for, and I’m not even the one who killed him. I mean, he was Creepy Jakey, maybe creepier than I even realized, but he’s from town, and Arthur’s instructions have been explicitly clear. I will keep your secrets, Harper, but you must promise me. Promise me that you’ll always protect this town, no matter what it takes.
I heave a deep, regretful sigh as I watch the machine chew through the last of his flesh and bone, spitting it across the tarp. I’m bending to pick up Jake’s head by the hair when it suddenly turns off in an abrupt cessation of sound.
My heart lurches to a halt as I unholster my gun. I drop the head and pick up the bottle of Piss-Off! spray instead as I straighten, both nozzles pointed at the cab of my tractor.
Nolan Rhodes saunters into view, a dark smile coaxing out his deep-set dimples.
“Hello, Harper,” he says, pushing the hood of his sweater down from his damp hair. “I believe you have something of mine that I would like back.”
Morpheus caws a much-delayed warning as I stare down the barrel of the gun, keeping Nolan’s face trained within the sights while I release the safety on the side of the weapon. “I see you got my note. I thought my communication was pretty clear, but if you’re here, I guess it was missing something. So how about this?” I clear my throat, giving him a dramatic pause. “Fuck. Off. Get the fuck out of Cape Carnage and never come back, and I’ll ensure that your book stays safely hidden. Is that clear enough for you this time?”
