Yates’s expression turns grim. Lightless. He leans a little closer to his desk, his eyes pinned to me, unwavering and shadowed beneath his drawn brows. “He was flying over Lancaster Manor?”

I give a single nod. “Yes, sir.”

“And you weren’t the pilot?”

Blood drains from my limbs, leaving crystals of ice behind. My heart rages, carving alarmed beats into my ribs.

“Sir …?”

“You were piloting the drone recently for Mr. Porter—six days ago, correct? The day that Jake Hornell was last seen.”

The bitter taste of fear lingers on my tongue as the moisture evaporates from my mouth. I never gave him Sam’s last name.

This isn’t how I operate, recklessly putting myself in the searchlight. I stay in the shadows. I know I’m good at charming people when I want to, at manipulating them into moving their pieces on the board, placing them right where I want them to be. But I also know I’m not indestructible. I don’t swan into a police station figuring that I hold all the power.

But that’s exactly what I’ve just done. And not only is it a consuming, obsessive need to protect Harper that’s driven me to this moment, but now I might have put not only myself in danger, but her too. Because she’s on that drone footage that I shot. She might be one of the last people who saw Jake Hornell alive. Pieces of him are in her fucking garden. And the rest of him is buried along the Ballantyne River, on Arthur’s land, not far from where we exhume his victims every night. In the grave I dug. The one I intended for her.

These thoughts cascade through my mind in mere seconds, some other part of my brain slipping into self-protection mode as I say, “I piloted the drone for him a few days ago, yes. But only that one time. He was a little … weird … about things he wanted me to focus on. Insistent. He wanted me to film certain people. It just didn’t seem right. It felt … invasive.” I shake my head and shrug, masking the partial lie with nonchalance. “Anyway, I guess his drone guy must have shown up.”

“So you weren’t the person flying the drone over Lancaster Manor?”

“No.”

“Then why were you there?”

“I was just walking by.”

“You were just walking by,” he repeats. He taps a long index finger on the desk, the ghost of a smile lingering on his lips. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Look,” he finally says, leaning back in his chair with a deep sigh. “Cape Carnage is a small town with an unusual history. Guys like Porter show up every few years, searching for something they think they’re going to find. Some truth behind the urban legends, maybe. But they don’t uncover anything, because there’s no old, hidden secret to find here. Every small town has something dark in its past if you look back far enough, just like Cape Carnage. That doesn’t mean there’s a murderer lurking around every corner. And, more often than not, their meddling messes up things for the likes of Deputy Collins and me when we have actual work to do. Like figuring out what the hell happened to Jake. It’s possible he just skipped town, all things considered.” He taps on a manila folder on his desk, which I assume has something to do with Jake. But his eyes don’t leave mine as they narrow. “However, I guess I could be wrong. You wouldn’t know anything about Mr. Hornell’s whereabouts, would you?”

I shake my head, conscious of every micro expression I make as I hold his gaze. “No, sir.”

“Hmm.” I’m not sure if that’s a good hmm or a bad hmm, but I just wait, my expression bland and guiltless despite the bead of sweat that rolls down my spine. “Well,” Yates finally says, rolling his chair backward and rising to his feet, “I appreciate you raising a concern. I’ll keep an eye on things.”

He extends a hand across the desk and I take it, wondering what he thinks of the temperature of my palm as I say, “Anytime, sir. Happy to help.”

With a nod and a brighter smile, Sheriff Yates lets go and walks around the desk to open the door to his office, stepping aside for me to walk through. Just as I pass the threshold, he lays a hand on my shoulder. “Oh, and son …”

“Yes …?”

“If you run into Mr. Porter, tell him to pop by the station. I’ve been trying to get that drone footage from him in case Mr. Hornell was on it, but for some reason, he seems to be avoiding me. Best to cross every T, and I’d rather not have to issue a warrant. Not a good look during tourist season, especially not when the Sleuthseekers will descend on this place if they think I’m antagonizing their queen bee.”

“Sure thing, sir.”

With a fatherly pat to my shoulder, Sheriff Yates lets me go, and I keep my steps measured as I get the fuck out of the station. It takes everything in me not to speed from the parking lot in a squeal of tires.

It isn’t until I’m sitting on the edge of my bed at the inn that I feel like I can finally take a breath.

Since the first day I arrived in Cape Carnage, nothing has gone the way I thought it would. The imagined future I came here with has been split through a prism, fracturing into shards that are unrecognizable from the simple, colorless beam of light I started with. It began the very moment I met Harper in a coffee shop. And now, I feel like I’m crashing through every one of those meticulous plans I made, desperate to get closer to her no matter how hard I try to fight my way back on course.

What would happen if I stopped trying to hate her?

More and more, it’s an effort to hold on to my anger toward Harper. I see how fiercely loyal she is to Arthur. She puts herself in danger to keep him safe. I see how much she cares about Cape Carnage, from her refusal to leave despite the threat of my presence to her efforts in making the town more beautiful, even though she must be exhausted. I think I even see how much she cares about me. It’s in the long glances in the lantern light. It’s in the guilt that glazes her eyes. It was there last night, even when she tried to hide it. And she’s right to be wary of me. Just like she’s said, I’ve threatened her. Intimidated her. Spied on her. I’ve never given her a safe space. I’ve never even allowed that concept to thrive in me, constantly battling to crush it into submission.

So what would happen if I just … stopped fighting it? What would she do if I let myself care? Really care?

I look toward the wardrobe where I once stored my backpack of weapons. The one Harper stole after I stuffed a head in her bird feeder and left her with a threat. When I promised that no matter where she hid or how far she ran, I would still find her. Somehow, even that vow has changed color in the prism of time.

With a sharp inhale, I rise from the bed and stride to the shower. Within fifteen minutes, I’m leaving my room, headed for the general store to replace everything that she tossed into the Ballantyne River. Maybe I even pick up a few more things. When I get back to my room, I text her.

I’ll swing by at nine to pick you up?

I stare at the screen for a long time. But her response never comes, even after the last shades of indigo have bled from the sky. Despite the lack of reply, I still drive past her cottage on my way to the river, slowing as I near the gate in the stone wall. There are no lights on in her house.

I park on the lane near the river where my vehicle will be hidden from view. With my new stove and lantern and tarp shoved into my damp backpack and an unused shovel over my shoulder, I head to the boulders that overlook Arthur’s burial ground. I set out two mugs. I make hot chocolate. But Harper doesn’t show.

It’s nearly eleven-thirty by the time I finally take the leftovers in the pot down to the river to wash the cooled chocolate away. When I’m done, I turn toward the silt floodplain, my focus panning over the expanse of secrets. Without Harper, I don’t know the measurements. I wouldn’t know where to start to look for the next of Arthur’s victims.