I could run. I could disappear in the fog and never think of Cape Carnage again.

But I will not leave Harper.

Not with Sam closing in. Not with Arthur causing chaos. She can’t do this on her own. Whether she likes it or not, I’m staying at her place. I’ll sleep on the fucking floor if I have to. If tonight has proven anything, it’s that she is not safe. Even Arthur is becoming a threat to her well-being. And I will not let her endure this alone.

I rush with my suitcases through the empty lobby, placing them in my rental car before I head back to my room for my final two bags, the ones that are stocked with our nightly supplies—rope and collapsible shovels, duct tape and bug spray, the camp stove and hot chocolate. With a bag in each hand, I jog back to my vehicle and start loading them into the back, my thoughts consumed by Harper and everything I have to do at the cemetery to get rid of the body and ensure her secrets stay hidden.

“Well, I’ll say,” I hear Sam’s voice from behind me. “That looks like a serial killer kit if I ever saw one.”

I turn slowly, coming face-to-face with the muzzle of a gun.

“Evening, Sam. That’s an aggressive way to say hello.” I slowly start to raise my hands. When they’re at chest height, I strike out with my right hand, hoping to snatch the gun from his hand.

But Sam is faster than I expected.

With a kick I don’t even see coming, he nails my left knee with a vicious strike. I go down hard on the asphalt.

“Oops. That wouldn’t be your bad leg, would it?”

Deep breaths shudder through my lungs. I struggle to focus on the asphalt beneath my palms. It’s not just the agonizing burn in my knee. It’s not the wound that’s never fully healed that darkens the edges of my vision. It’s the rage. Sam knows my weaknesses and he’s willing to strike them.

A terrible question blares through my thoughts like an alarm: How many weaknesses is he ready to exploit?

Though it takes me a moment, I force myself through the searing pain. With a hand braced to the bumper, I rise and face Sam once more.

“I started looking into you,” Sam says. His gun is steady. His eyes determined. A little smile of triumph lifts one corner of his lips. “The more I started digging, the more interesting things I started to find.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His smile grows darker. More boastful. He shifts his weight, the camera bag on his hip following the motion. “I’m sure you don’t. But you’re going to get into your car and drive exactly where I tell you to go. And then we’ll have a talk and see if I can jog your memory.”

I take a step closer, and he takes one back, firming his grip on his weapon. “And if I don’t?” I ask.

“Well, I guess I shoot you. It would probably be pretty believable that I acted in self-defense, all things considered. Especially since Sheriff Yates isn’t known for his investigative skills, you know? So whether you live or die is up to you. But either way, if you don’t come with me, I’ll hand everything I have straight to the FBI. I’ll expose everything I know about you,” he says as his thumb shifts to release the safety from the gun. “And Harper Starling.”

TEMPESTHarper

How’s it going?

I OPEN MY LAST TEXT to Nolan, my thumb hovering over the screen. I start typing a new message. Are you okay? But just as I’m about to press send, I notice what’s missing. The little gray Delivered notification below my last question.

A thread of unease knits through my veins.

I send my other message, though I already know the result won’t be different. The second message isn’t delivered either. I call Nolan’s phone. It goes straight to voicemail.

“Fuck,” I whisper.

I drag a hand through my hair and stare down at Arthur, his mouth agape, his breathing deep and even. Part of me wants to stay in case he becomes restless in the night. But something gnaws at me. Though I try to tell myself that Nolan might have his phone off to minimize disruptions or to avoid detection, my instincts are telling me otherwise. Something feels wrong.

With a final frown at my sleeping friend, I send Arthur a text in case he wakes and checks his phone, and then I leave, taking the Jaguar to venture into the fog. From Lancaster Manor, I first head toward the inn where I’ll be able to turn left and progress straight west to Spruce Road, the cemetery only three blocks away.

I slow as I reach the Capeside Inn. The mist is a little clearer here with the breeze that rolls across the waves to climb the cliffs. I stop the vehicle at the entrance to the parking lot, where I can see all the spaces. It’s nearly full, but Nolan’s rental is nowhere in sight.

The unease that creeps through me starts to churn, rolling through my guts like a twisting serpent.

I turn and head west toward Spruce Road and the Cape Carnage Cemetery. The streets are empty. The mist is thick, a silver shroud that blankets my headlights. As I drive through the quiet streets, I couldn’t be more grateful for its oppressive haze. Especially when I arrive at the graveyard to find one of the gates still open, the chain dangling from the wrought iron vines.

I swallow and take my foot off the brake, letting the car creep forward until I nudge the gate open farther and roll onto the unlit drive.

The road winds through elms and oaks and sculpted hedges, past statues of angels and crosses, some tilting at angles. It snakes to the top of the hill, where a low fence of black metal spearheads encloses the private gravesite. I roll to a stop and turn off the car, opening the door to the scent of the sea air heavy in the mist. I listen, but nothing comes. No rustle. No whisper. Not even my own exhalations, my breath trapped in my chest.

It feels like I’m walking in slow motion. I already know what I’ll find when I push the low gate open and step into the Lancaster family plot.

A man’s body, lying on the ground. Right where we left it.

Air rushes from my lungs and I gulp it back down like I’m drowning all over again. I scan the darkness around me, but there’s no sign of Nolan. There’s nothing to indicate he was ever here.

He wasn’t at the inn.

He never returned to the cemetery.

And he has his book. All the evidence I held against him. I told him I trusted him and gave it all back.

I thread my fingers into my hair and lower to a squat, as though I could curl myself into another dimension. Tears sting my eyes. How could he just leave? I don’t want to believe he could simply disappear, not after everything he said. His words had burrowed right into me when he made me a promise. You’re mine, he’d said. I’ll never let anyone take you from me.

It felt so … real. I was sure it was the truth. How could I be so wrong …?

It takes a long moment before I raise my eyes from the earth. My gaze lands on the familiar headstone a few feet away, its unusual half-circle shape easily distinguishable from the other monuments. I can’t see the swirls of green in the jade marble, but the bracelets glint in the dim light where they hang from tiny hooks beneath the curve of the carved crescent moon.

I force myself to stand, my vision wavering behind tears as I stop in front of the headstone that was a gift from Arthur, one he gave me in the first few months of our friendship. I didn’t have a body to lay here. Only memories. Just a name. Adam Cunningham.

I let my finger coast across the trinkets that dangle from the hooks. One of them is missing—the engraved silver bracelet. I realize that this is the first time I’ve thought of Adam without feeling the sting of loss or the crush of guilt. Instead, my first thought is about how lovely it is that Morpheus brought it back to me. A wild creature, ferrying memories across the town. Maybe he’s put that bracelet where it will return to the strata of time. And that thought doesn’t bring me sadness. Somehow, it brings me relief.