At the mention of his family, I see the first true moment of unease burrow beneath Nolan’s ruthless scowl. A muscle feathers along his jaw as though he’s trying to clamp down on his fear. His grip loosens just enough on my throat that I can take a full breath in.
“There’s only one way you’re getting that book,” I say. A shadow of rage passes across Nolan’s face, his lips set in a tense line. “Help me protect Arthur. Get Sam out of here.”
“If you want me to kill him, I’m not going to do that.”
“Fuck no.” I glare at him, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. “If you do that, the fucking Sleuthseekers will descend on this place. We’ll be overrun by those fucking tin hat conspiracy weirdos. Just make him leave.”
Nolan lets out a bark of a laugh. There’s no joy or warmth in the smile he gives me. “So you want me to help you protect your serial killer benefactor from the guy who seems to be legitimately on his trail? That’s rich.”
“That’s the offer. Take it or get fucked.”
“Why don’t you just lead Sam off course by yourself? Judging by your little setup here,” he says with a jerk of his head in the direction of the woodchipper, “I’m sure you can manufacture a reason for him to take his focus off your friend and put it elsewhere. Maybe try being magnanimous for once in your life and take the heat for Arthur yourself.”
I swallow down the vows I’ve made. The promises I’ll do anything to keep. “If I could take the heat for him, I would,” I say. Though I’m sure Nolan won’t believe me, that’s the truth. I know enough about Porter to know that he’s not just here to solve a mystery. He’s here for fame. And no one could give him a better story than me. If I let Sam Porter get too close to me, he’ll thrust me back into the spotlight, and who knows what that bright light could uncover. Every promise I’ve ever made—to Arthur, to myself, to the ghosts I left in my past—will crumble like dust in my hands.
If only it were that simple.
I can’t do this on my own. Nolan Rhodes might have come here to kill me, but he’s suddenly the only person who can save me. “Help me or your book is going to the authorities.”
He scoffs, his eyes scouring my face as though he could flay the flesh from my bones with nothing more than a look. “Let’s say I do help you. Then what? You’re just going to give me my book back and let me go on my merry way?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know I won’t turn around and kill you the second it’s in my hands?”
“I guess you could.” I shrug. “But I suppose the rest of the evidence could still be a problem for you.”
Silence descends between us. His hand tightens once more around my throat and I capture a breath to hold it. Stalemate, I hear again as the edges of my vision start to darken. My eyes press closed only long enough to will the memory away, and as soon as they do, Nolan’s grip relaxes just enough that the hum in my head subsides.
“I will help you with Arthur. And then you’ll give me the book and anything else you have stored away,” he finally says.
“I’ll give you the book and your weapons. You’ll leave town. Anything else stays with me, since I’m sure you’ll be gathering evidence against me during our super fun time together that I’m so looking forward to. Take it or leave it.”
I can see how desperately he wants that book. It’s a war behind his eyes. But just because I have leverage and need his help, doesn’t mean I can trust him. No matter what I keep after our deal runs its course, he’ll kill me the moment that book is in his hands. I know it.
The only way I’ll survive is to kill him first.
“Pretty murder bird,” Morpheus says in the mist, his voice a flawless imitation of my own.
I swallow, unfolding my hand from Nolan’s wrist to hold it up between us for him to shake. “Do we have a deal?”
Nolan looks down at my offered truce. He gives so little away in his expression, his eyes fixed on my bloodstained glove. It takes a long moment before his focus finally meets mine once more and he uncurls his grip from my throat, one finger at a time. Morpheus caws in the shadows. Maybe it’s a harbinger of doom. Or fate, sealed in an ominous song. His cry falls into the background as Nolan tugs the gardening glove from my hand and tosses it to the grass, then slips his palm against mine, his stare unblinking. “Make no mistake,” he says. “If I go down, I’m taking you with me.”
“I’m sure.” I can’t help the wicked smile that creeps onto my lips as I pump his hand twice. “Starting tomorrow.”
With my other hand, I raise the bottle of Piss-Off! and spray him in the face.
Nolan drops my hand and backs away, raising his arm in defense. “What the fuck? What are you doing?”
“Getting you to Piss-Off! I’ve had enough of your shit for one day.”
“It burns.”
“Good,” I snarl. Three more sprays land on his hand. “Get the fuck off my property. Take your fucking head with you. I’m not interested in cleaning up your mess.”
I toss Jake’s head at Nolan and it hits his chest with a dull thud. He’s wiping the spray from his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie when I open the valve on the garden hose lying next to the tarp and toss it in his direction.
“Come back tomorrow afternoon and we’ll figure this shit out,” I say, picking up the knife and the gun as he fumbles for the hose, a string of curses tumbling from his lips. He points the end toward his face and blinks into the trickle of cold water. “And if I see you before then, I’ll be putting you through my woodchipper before our deal even begins.”
With a final glance, I turn my back on the man who has come here to kill me and walk away.
TREASURESHarper
“YOU’RE SURE ABOUT THIS? THE Pocket Rocket is basically a deathtrap,” Lukas says as I whip back the canvas cover from the old soapbox racer.
“Aren’t they all?” A cloud of dust envelops us, catching the morning sun through the filmy window of the shed. I wave a hand in front of my face as I step closer to the makeshift car, its body constructed from two whiskey barrels that have been cut up and welded together with extra panels of steel. Arthur’s ingenuity might as well be stamped right next to the Lancaster Distillery logo that’s branded into the aged oak. “I can’t believe Arthur let you name it the Pocket Rocket.”
Lukas chuckles, sliding a palm over the faded name painted above a decorative wing. “He wasn’t really up on his penis slang, you know? When Bert nearly pissed himself announcing my turn and started cracking some pretty obvious innuendos while commentating on my run, he caught on pretty quick. I was grounded for a solid two weeks after that.” Lukas’s smile turns bittersweet and his gaze grows distant, as though he’s looking back in time. “Even still, it was worth it. That was the best day.”
My heart sinks as I watch Lukas run a hand through his short black hair and rest it on the back of his head, something he always does when the weight of his life seems too heavy a burden to bear. Though he meets my eyes for only a fleeting moment, it’s long enough to see the raw edges of a wound that’s never healed. A wound named Maxine, the girl he loved all his life. The one who picked up and left Carnage in the dead of night on their graduation day with no explanation, as though she couldn’t wait another moment to get away.
It broke him irreparably. And despite being tall and fit, independently wealthy before thirty, and painfully good-looking in a broken soul kind of way, I’m ninety-nine percent sure Lukas is a virgin. Not that it’s any of my fucking business.
“Are you sure you’re okay with me using the Rocket?” I ask, pulling my thoughts away from the “Is Lukas a virgin?” debate I’ve had with myself many times, even though it skeeves me out a bit as he feels like he could be my brother. Lukas is already shaking his head and dismissing my concern. “I can find something else—”
