I’m still tossing these questions around after dinner. We’re biding our time until evening deepens to night, at which point I’ll head back to the inn to retrieve the car for our next escapade at the Ballantyne River. At least, that’s the plan until a call comes through on Harper’s phone.

“Hey, Lukas,” she says, her tone nonchalant as she rises from our game of cribbage to put the kettle on for a fresh pot of tea. “What’s up?”

“Have you talked to Arthur?” he says over the speaker. I can detect the tone of concern, though he tries to hide it. And I can see in her face that she’s worried, too.

“A few hours ago, yeah. Maybe about seven o’clock. Why?”

“I texted him a few times to check in, but he hasn’t responded. He didn’t pick up when I called, either. Would you mind checking the house? I’m worried he had another fall.”

Harper is already grabbing her jacket and sliding her work boots on when she gives him a quick reply and hangs up. And I’m right on her heels.

“This isn’t like him,” she says as she marches through the back garden. A heavy fog has descended upon us, and I can’t even see the main house through the thick, moonlit mist. There are no lights on inside to guide us either.

“Maybe he got tied up with something in town.”

Harper looks up at me with a raised brow. “What do you mean?”

Unease trickles through my veins. I swallow, laying a hand on Harper’s arm to stop her.

I already know it. I’ve made a fucking colossal mistake.

“I saw him when I first arrived,” I say. “He said you told him to grab his bag from the cottage—”

“No—”

“And he asked if I could find it upstairs for him—”

“Oh no no no—”

“So … I gave it to him. And then he said he had ‘things to attend to.’”

“Nolan,” she shrieks, whacking my arm with a thud. “That’s his fucking murder bag. He hates going into the cottage, and he played you like an amateur to get it.”

I groan, swiping a hand down my face. Though I look back toward the cottage simply because that’s the last place I saw him, I have no fucking clue where to start. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”

“You can’t believe anything he says. Seriously. Not anything.”

“I just didn’t expect it. He kept telling me he’s an ‘old man’—”

“I know,” she says, exasperation heavy in her voice. “He loves to tell people that. ‘I’m so old, help an old man pick up his cane, would you, dear?’—and then bam. He knifes you in the fucking throat.” Harper shoots me a glare before whipping her phone from her jacket pocket. Her thumbs tap furiously over the screen. “Don’t mistake advanced age for weakness. Arthur has spent decades refining his craft. If anything, his age has worked to his advantage.”

Though I’m irritated at myself and worried for Harper, I’m kind of impressed. “I’m sorry, Harper. Truly. I won’t make that mistake again.”

The only acknowledgment she gives me is a worried flick of her eyes as she chews on her bottom lip. She frowns at the screen, and a heartbeat later her expression clears, leaving only determination behind. “He’s at the cemetery. Take these.” Harper thrusts her keys in my direction. “The Jag is parked in the garage. Bring it down the main driveway and stop at the gate. I just have to grab something from my place and I’ll meet you there.”

With a nod, she turns and runs toward the cottage, and I watch her for just a beat before I pivot in the opposite direction and run for the house. The old sedan rumbles to life and I bring it down the drive, stopping where Harper instructed. A moment later, she appears, running from the back of the cottage with a backpack slung over her shoulders. She shrugs it off as she gets close to the car, but it’s not until she’s inside that I recognize it for what it is.

My backpack.

“I guess we’re all about the murder bags today,” she says quietly, passing it over the center console to me. I’m so stunned that it takes me a moment to accept it. “Your book is inside too. Everything is there.” She lifts one shoulder. “But I won’t be offended if you want to check.”

I set it on my lap, my eyes not leaving hers. I should be celebrating. I should feel relieved. Maybe I should even feel ready for the revenge I came for. But I don’t. It’s as though everything has washed away, leaving only the core of my obsession behind. Harper was always at its center. But what she means to me has transformed, and now all I feel is fear for what this could mean. “Why?”

She tries to shrug again, but it comes off jerky and nervous. “Just in case.”

“Just in case of what?” That anxiety is swirling now, a squall behind my sternum. “Just in case of Sam? Or something else?”

“I don’t know. I just …” She shakes her head, turning her attention to her hands as they fidget in her lap. “I just don’t want you to be pulled into it if things come down on Arthur and me.” She tries to smile, but it seems brittle around the edges. “I’ve done enough damage already, don’t you think?”

I don’t answer that. I can’t. I don’t know how the accident happened or why she chose to leave Billy and me on the road. Maybe she has reasons I don’t understand. And I can’t quantify how much damage she’s done, nor how much I’ve grown because of her, even when I didn’t want to. How can I possibly measure loss against love? The grief I’ve endured against the life I’ve gained? I can’t change the past. But hasn’t she given me purpose in its aftermath?

I set the bag in the footwell behind her, and then I grasp her chin, staring into her shining eyes so she knows I mean it when I say, “Thank you, Harper.”

With a swift and gentle kiss to her lips, I focus on the fog ahead, putting the car in drive.

The roads are empty given the hour and poor weather. The air feels thick with tension between us, Harper relaying directions before slipping back into contemplative silence. When we arrive at the cemetery, the iron gate that bars entry to the twisting road at night is ajar, enough for someone to walk through, a heavy padlock hanging open on the chain.

“Any idea what he’s doing at the graveyard?”

Harper expels a long breath. “Hopefully having a peaceful moment of reflection and solitude.” I glance in her direction and she gives me a flat look in reply. “Considering he has the murder bag, I seriously doubt it’s anything good. I’ll get the gate.”

She steps out of the car and pushes it wide enough for me to drive through, and I wait on the other side as she shuts it. As she slides back into her seat, I hear the yapping bark of a small dog in the distance ahead.

“Looks like he’s probably at the Lancaster family plot,” Harper says, zooming in on the map on her screen to pinpoint the location of Arthur’s phone. She pockets the device and points to the dark road that twists up a hill of graves. “Up there.”

I roll forward, a slow and careful procession through the mist. When we’re nearly at the top of the hill, a small dog with bows at its ears bounds across our path, a leash trailing behind it.

“That’s probably not good,” I say, lurching to a stop.

“No. Probably not.”

I throw the car into park and turn it off, leaving the keys in the ignition. We get out and quietly push the doors closed, though it would be hard to hear us over the insistent bark of the tiny canine bounding around my legs. I pick it up and it settles, and we exchange a grim look before Harper turns toward a section of the cemetery bordered by a low fence with an open gate that leads to the headstones just visible through the thick fog. At first, it seems still. Empty. And then there’s a moan.

We rush toward the gate.

Two men lie supine among the graves. But only one of them moves.

Harper drops to her knees at Arthur’s side, checking his cheek where the skin is split and bleeding. “Arthur, oh my God, are you all right?” He groans and tries to sit up, but doesn’t answer. I set the dog down and check the other man’s pulse, but I can already tell by his open, unseeing eyes and his cool skin that there’s no hope of resuscitating him.