My hands shake with the effort of not tearing the paper to shreds.
Sam Porter shouldn’t know these intimate details. What she looks like when she’s upset. How her eyes seem to glow when she’s angry. That she was in tears when she left our conversation at Maya’s shop. That she bites her lip when she’s worried. He has no right to know these things. To follow her. Watch her. Hoard these little details. He hasn’t earned them. Not her ephemeral trust, not her fierce loyalty. She didn’t give those to him. Not like she has to me.
He’s crept into her territory. And he thinks he knows these things and what they mean. But there’s one detail he clearly hasn’t captured:
She is mine.
I slam my fist onto the desk.
How much more does he know? What has he seen? She can’t be safe here, and I know she’s never going to leave Arthur on his own with someone like Porter lurking in her domain. I’m desperate to tear his bones out through his skin, but I believe what Harper said. If we kill him, we could risk the whole Sleuthseeker organization descending on this town. Though I cycle through every option, I can’t see a clear solution.
I manage to gather my thoughts just long enough to skim the rest of the documents, though I barely digest what I’m reading through the haze of swirling rage and panic. Satisfied that I’ve seen enough, I put the papers back the way I found them. After a quick search of the wardrobe and dresser turns up empty, I head to the door, taking a moment to try to regain some semblance of composure. I run my fingers through my hair, but my hand still shakes. I take a calming breath, but my heart hammers at every bone. When I finally give up trying to wrangle my distress, I check the peephole, then open the door and step across the threshold.
I’m halfway down the hallway when I hear footsteps climbing the stairs. I freeze, but there’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide. There’s no way I can get back into Sam’s room in time, the door already closed and locked behind me. And if it’s him …?
I keep walking, hoping it will look like I’m meant to be here as my heart claws across my rib cage, protesting my innocence with every beat.
I’m nearly at the end of the corridor when Sheriff Yates comes into view.
There’s a momentary burst of surprise in his eyes, before a faint smile appears, one that’s both professional but detached, none of it reaching his eyes.
“Mr. Roan,” he says with a nod.
“Rhodes,” I correct him, and his smile brightens.
“Ah, yes,” he says. “Rhodes. All okay?”
No. I’m a fucking mess and I’m not sure what my face is doing. “Yes, sir. Yourself?”
Yates scratches his graying stubble, glancing past me to the door I just walked through a moment ago. “You know, busy day planned with the carnival. Thought I’d see if I could catch Mr. Porter for a moment before he goes off on his next adventure for the day. You’re on this floor too? Don’t know as I’d want Mr. Porter for a neighbor, personally.”
“No, sir. Just stopped by to give him some information on mountain biking in the area,” I say, figuring there’s no point in lying about my room location just in case Sheriff Yates calls my bluff. Though I keep my expression neutral, the panic churning through my guts only moments ago becomes a whirlpool I can’t swim my way free from. Has Yates come to see Sam before, when I was occupied and didn’t know it? What if he’s been tracking Sam’s movements too? What if they’re collaborating and I somehow missed the signs? “Well,” I say, resisting the urge to curl my hands into tight fists. “I just tried knocking but no one answered, so I think you might be too late.”
“Huh. Could’ve sworn I heard a door close, not a knock.”
“Sound travels strangely in these old places, I guess.”
His smile might stretch just a little, but I don’t get the impression that Yates is convinced. “Yeah. You’re probably right.”
With a tight nod, I resume my path toward the stairs, coming closer to Yates with every step. He seems to fill up too much space with his height and his uniform and his probing eyes that follow my motion. Just as I’m about to pass him, he clamps a hand down on my shoulder. I try not to flinch as he squeezes, his grip just over the wound still healing there. “Heard you went on a date with Miss Harper Starling, is that correct?”
“Not sure if you could call it a date, sir,” I say, unease prickling across my skin. My wound sings to him with pain, as though it’s whispering all my secrets into his palm. “But we had dinner last night, yes.”
“Well, I hope it was a nice evening, because she sure could use a break. She’s a good girl. Heard she was with Mr. Lancaster in the hospital when a tourist caused a ruckus in the emergency room. I hope she wasn’t too rattled.” He gives a shake of his head, concern creasing his brow before it smooths. “Say, you wouldn’t know anything about a man named Sean McMillan, would you?”
My eyes narrow. I shake my head. “Doesn’t ring any bells, sir.”
“Hmm. Didn’t think so.” He squeezes my shoulder and then removes his hand, giving me a final pat before his hand drops to his side to rest on his holster. “Just seems odd. First Jake disappears. Now this McMillan character seems to vanish without a trace.”
“Sorry I can’t be of more help.”
“No matter. They’ll turn up somewhere eventually, I’m sure.”
We’re locked into a stare that lasts a beat too long, like a single note that lingers when the rest of the song has finished. “I’ll be sure to let you know if I hear anything,” I finally say, and Yates’s face transforms with a welcoming smile. It’s unnerving after the cold that seemed to spread through the air between us just a moment ago.
“I appreciate you, son. Take care.” I give him a single nod. And then I walk away. I’m nearly at the end of the corridor when he stops me dead as he says, “Oh, and wish Harper luck at the races for me today. She’s got a lot on her plate. I know you’ll be good to her … right …?”
I pin him with an assessing look over my shoulder. “Yes. Of course, sir.”
That smile of his broadens. But it still doesn’t reach his eyes.
With a final tip of my head, I leave Yates standing in the hall.
When I’m at the bottom of the stairs, I wait in the shadows, listening for Yates to follow. But he doesn’t show.
GALESHarper
“CORPSIE THE COPILOT, REPORTING FOR duty,” I say as I shove my crafted corpse into the rear seat of the Pocket Rocket. My refurbished soapbox racer might not be the most elaborate contraption, but Corpsie looks pretty badass with her goggles and pigtails and the bloody slash across her throat. I release the elastic bands around the long ribbons attached to the wands that I stitched to her palms, unfurling the colorful strips of fabric to rest them on the back of the car so they can trail in our wake when we hurtle down the hill.
“It’s very … lifelike. Or deathlike, I guess …” Nolan says, his brow furrowed as he pokes a finger into her silicone cheek. His eyes slide to mine, but the crease between his brows remains, an echo of worry etched in his skin.
“But you wouldn’t know anything about that, right?” I wink, and regret it immediately. I probably look deranged, some unhinged winking murder woman with a corpse mannequin copilot stuffed into the back seat of her soapbox racer. I resist the urge to look down at my retro aeronaut outfit, a white button-up shirt complemented with an old pair of Arthur’s pleated pants and suspenders. I look super hot.
… I don’t look super hot. At all.
Nolan’s frown deepens as he scrutinizes my soapbox racer before his gaze pans across the competitors ahead of me in line. “Are you sure this is safe?”
“I tested it on Arthur’s driveway. It seemed fine.”
