As they headed down the road, away from the beach, Pearl exhaled loudly and laughed. "Oh my god, I'm free! I can't believe this is happening."
Harper's hands gripped the wheel; she was nervous enough for the both of them. "Listen. When you get to your sister's house, make sure you call this number." Harper rattled off the emergency number for the local women's shelter that, of course, she had memorized in her steel-trap community-organizer brain. "They will help you put a no-contact order in place and accompany you to retrieve your personal effects.
Pearl, however, wasn't listening but was clicking through the buttons on Harper's car radio, looking for something to "lighten the mood."
Harper had to work to keep her eyes on the road as Pearl's long, manicured nails clicked loudly on the buttons. The painted-on rhinestones created a prism effect around the interior of the car. Harper thought Pearl's nails looked terrific, but also wondered just who she was, exactly. Expensive boots, jewelry, high-end manicure, but no winter gear?
"Do you have a coat, hat, gloves? What are you in need of?" Harper asked.
But Pearl waved her off. "Oh, no. It was just a last-minute decision to take a walk, and hats ruin my hairdo."
Harper wanted to follow up on that, but at that moment, Pearl cranked the radio and started singing along to the music.
By the time Harper's car reached the woman's sister's house, Harper was both fascinated and confused by Pearl's behavior.
Maybe the adrenaline rush caused by escaping that man is making her feel euphoric and acting strangely. But then, her gut feeling told her there was much more behind what was going on.
By the time Harper paid attention to that gut feeling, Pearl had leaned into her personal space, too close, and said, "I just want to hug you and say thank you."
Conflicted, still harboring that compulsive need to do the right thing for someone in need, Harper let Pearl hug her.
At that moment, Harper knew she should have never gone to the beach at all that morning. Pearl hugged her tight with one arm, and with the other, shoved something hard against Harper's side.
"Turn off the car and come with me, or I put a bullet in your spleen."
Chapter Twenty
Dash
"Where the hell are you?"
Harper's phone went straight to voicemail for the third time in a row that day.
He'd called her twice over his lunch break at the factory, and it had gone to voicemail both times too. The third time, he'd called 30 minutes after his lunch break because he could not stop worrying and needed to put his mind at rest.
After that third phone call, Dash left work early. He clocked out and stormed out of the building, ignoring the questions from his coworker and shift supervisor.
"Fire me," he growled.
As he made his way to his car, he thought of who else he could call.
He burst through the front door of Harper's house when he arrived and called out to her. "Harper! Are you here? Why aren't you answering your phone?"
He waited, prayed, for her smart-ass reply as he rushed through the small kitchen and living room, then bounded up the steps to the tiny attic bedroom, calling her name. But he already knew deep in his guts that she wasn't going to answer back.
"Where the actual fuck?"
Maybe she's having a crazy day at work, he told himself. Dialing information, he eventually tracked down her boss at the newspaper, Greg. "No, I'm sorry, she hasn't been in at all today. I've left several messages because we've got lots to cover today and a story she might like. If you hear from her, could you have her call me right away?"
Dash promised to do that and hung up the phone with his heart in his throat. This woman was going to get a landline installed in this house as soon as possible. He redialed her, but this time, her inbox was full. He continued to look around her space for clues but found none. Everything was as they had left it that morning before they went to have breakfast at Crow Bar.
All except one thing. On the back stoop in the slush—the one spot he'd neglected to shovel—was a set of boot prints that were about five sizes bigger than Harper's. "What the fuck?"
Calm down, buddy. It could have been a delivery driver or a neighbor. Or Fr. O'Brien.
Something told him that was not the case. Feeling somehow both ultra-paranoid but also inadequate, he photographed the boot prints in the slush.
"Not gonna do me any good. But I'm desperate at this point, Harper."
Great. Now I'm talking to my girlfriend as if she's here with me.
She hadn't shown up for work; she wasn't answering anybody's phone calls. Time to talk to her moms, he decided.
He bolted through the still-open front door just as Fr. O'Brien was crossing the yard carrying a dish of food in a disposable aluminum container.
"Father, have you seen Harper today?"
"No, son. I was just dropping off some pot pie. I tried a new recipe, and I thought she might enjoy it…is something wrong, Lynwood? You look out of sorts."
Dash filled the priest in on his concerns about Harper.
"Oh my. Son, I'm sure she's just fine. But if you need my help, just say the word."
Dash pointed behind him toward Harper's house. "Can I get you to stay here for a little while in case she shows up? I'm going to go look for her."
"Of course," Fr. O'Brien said.
Not knowing where her moms lived, Dash kicked himself for not finding out this information and then got in his car. He drove like mad to get to the distillery and prayed that her moms would be there. The man had never prayed so much in his life. Or ever.
Upon arriving at the distillery, Dash bolted out of the car and tugged on the door handle.
He cursed upon discovering it was locked and then
