the meantime… “Exterminators,” she said aloud, with a determined nod. Coffee mug in hand, Harper sat at the kitchen table and fired up her laptop. This wouldn’t be just any old routine extermination. No, she was booking the full Monty—the entire house wrapped in a toxic bubble by men dressed in hazmat suits. She pulled up a list of local companies and dutifully scribbled down a couple of numbers to call when their businesses opened this morning.
Taking that action, however small, made her feel more in control. One step at a time, as her mom would say. And if anyone had reason to believe in that mantra, it was Ruth Catlett. She’d buried a husband and a child, yet every day she’d risen before dawn to work at a local diner one block down the road. And if her spirits had never quite recovered from Presley’s death, she managed to put on her game face in public.
And now there was one. Harper was the last of her family. Oh, sure, there were a couple of aunts and uncles and cousins scattered about Baysville, but it wasn’t the same.
Harper sighed and sipped her coffee as she stepped onto the front porch. Streaks of purple and orange illuminated the sky and were reflected in the Pagan River’s rippling water. Many of the quaint shops lining the riverfront had already turned on their lights. Baysville was awakening to a new day. She’d forgotten how beautiful her hometown was. The Tidewater region of Virginia was steeped in history and picturesque in a way that a big city like Atlanta could never match. She sat in the glider for several minutes, enjoying the slower pace. No clients to meet, no ringing phones or assistants to send on errands. She’d been much too busy this past year with her interior decorating business. In some ways, it’d been therapeutic after her breakup with Doug, but she was over that disappointment. Any man that fickle and gun-shy over commitment wasn’t worth the heartbreak.
The streets gradually began to fill. Slow pace or not, it was time to go in and get dressed before someone she knew spotted her in the grungy but comfy robe that was the epitome of ugly.
Inside, Harper strolled to the kitchen table and picked up the exterminators’ phone numbers. There were four new emails in her inbox. She supposed she’d better check them in case of pressing business in Atlanta. Sitting down, Harper opened her email, and her eyes were immediately drawn to one subject line that blared at her in all caps:
GET OUT OF THE HOUSE
With trembling fingers, she opened the email. No message in the body of the email, only the ominous warning from a sender: loser@life.
HARPER WALKED BY the front door of the Baysville Police Department three times before resolutely squaring her shoulders and marching in. Behind the charming brick facade of the station, the interior was utilitarian and stark. The designer in her was aghast at the yellowed linoleum floors, cheap metal chairs and institutional-green walls of the lobby, but taxpayers were paying for a service, not a pleasing office aesthetic.
At the counter, a bored woman handed her a clipboard. “Write down your name and reason for coming.”
Dutifully, Harper printed her name, then paused. Reason for coming? They were going to laugh her out of the station if she wrote “disturbing email.” This had been a terrible idea. Growing up, other kids had merely looked at her strangely if she mentioned the thing she’d seen that night. Worse, she hated that look of pity as they scooted away from her. As though she was a sort of magnet for disaster. It had been high school before her friendships had returned to normal, and that was due in large part to making the cheerleading squad and becoming friends with the popular Kimber Collins. Harper had learned to fit in with her peer group, keep her mouth shut and act as if all was well in her world.
“Never mind,” she told the city employee, handing back the clipboard.
She blinked at her behind thick glasses. Before the woman could ask questions, Harper flashed a fake smile and turned away.
“Excuse me, miss, are you sure about this?” the woman called out.
The few others slouched in the lobby waiting area looked up from their cell phones. Harper ignored them, too, as she waved a hand, the phony smile still in place. She looked and felt like an utter fool. All she wanted was a quick exit and…
Oomph. She crashed into a solid object and began tumbling backward. Hands gripped her forearm.
“Whoa, there. You okay?”
Dark, amused eyes flashed before her face. Bryce Fairfax.
Harper’s face and neck heated. “Fine,” she mumbled. Maybe if she hurried, he wouldn’t recognize her. She tried to pull away, but he held fast.
“Harper Catlett, Presley’s little sister,” he said, flashing his infamous grin that had had all the girls swooning in high school, including Presley. Truth be told, Harper had secretly crushed on him, too, although he was a good nine years older than her.
His smile faded. “Sorry to hear about your mom. I imagine you’ve been busy with her estate and settling loose ends.”
“Yes, thanks.”
His grip loosened but still remained. “What brings you to my station? Is there anything I can help you with?”
“Well, no. It’s not important.”
Bryce tugged at her arm and guided her back into the station. She fell into step beside him, wishing like hell that she’d never come.
“I’d do any favor for Presley’s little sister. Did you know that in high school, she used to tutor me in algebra? If it wasn’t for her, I might have failed that class. As it was, I managed to slip by with a D-minus.”
His self-deprecating laugh eased some of her tension. Bryce was as charming as ever. He had a knack for drawing people to him, especially women. He’d kept his athletic physique, and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes and forehead only made him look more interesting.
“Yes, I knew about the tutoring. Presley was so smart. Wish she’d been around when I struggled with math classes.”
Bryce shot her a sympathetic nod. “Such a tragic accident.”
“If it was an accident…” Harper clamped her mouth shut. No sense reminding anyone about her so-called mystery monster.
His brows rose, but he didn’t respond as they passed through the lobby and into the bowels of the station. From here, the slamming of iron doors and loud voices emanated from the county jail connected to the back of the building. It was disquieting. Any moment, she expected an escaped convict to pop out of nowhere, looking for a hostage.
At the end of a narrow hallway, she followed Bryce into his private office. She’d expected more from the police chief’s office, although she shouldn’t have been surprised, given the rest of the station’s decor.
Bryce slid behind a massive desk constructed of dark-stained plywood. A simple nameplate on his desk displayed his name and title. “About what you said back there—” he clasped his hands on the desk and leaned forward slightly, all business “—are you saying that you believe Presley’s death wasn’t accidental?”
“Not at all. I mean, I was only a child when it happened. What do I know?”
His dark eyes pierced her, as if trying to read her mind. “I remember
