Page 102 of Archer

I lowered my phone so she could see the screen.

Colton: Perimeter breach 2:17 AM. Multiple sensors triggered. You okay?

Knox: Saw the alerts. On our way.

Colton: Motion on all sides of the property. What’s happening?

Knox: Ten minutes out. Don’t touch anything.

They’d gotten the same alerts from the motion sensors that we did, without the funhouse- quality strobe lights and blaring music. “I should get dressed.” I kissed her head and pulled her along behind me to my room. I stripped out of my wet clothes and pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt.

Harper stood in the doorway staring at the floor. “You’re bleeding.”

“Shit, sorry.” I went to the bathroom to run clean water over the cuts on my feet.

“There’s a first aid kit in the cabinet,” Harper said. “Peroxide and bandages.”

She vanished for a moment while I worked on my feet.

I listened to her movements beyond my view, tensed to run to her if the need arose.

She returned with paper towels and cleaned the floor.

“I would’ve done that.”

“You have plenty to do,” she said. “What happened out there?”

“I saw him. I chased him, and he got away. Again.” The words were bitter on my tongue. I’d repeatedly failed this mission.

I finished with my feet and pulled socks over the bandages, nothing deep enough to require stitches.

Harper tossed the used paper towels into the bin, then dragged her phone from the back pocket of her jeans with enough effort to imply the device weighed fifty pounds. Her eyelids fell shut and she backed against the nearest wall for support as she scrolled.

“Hey, what is it?” I moved to her side and crouched.

“Instagram.” She passed her phone into my hands, then dropped her face against waiting palms.

A carousel of images from someone with the username, HarperFan1, appeared on her main feed. The account had tagged Harper in every shot. And the song from the boombox played.

First, an image of Harper standing at her broken rear window, wrapped only in a sheet. Her silhouette perfectly visible beneath the thin white fabric, thanks to the brightness of the then flashing strobe light. The curve of her body. The fear etched on her face. Exposed for all to see.

Then, me, running barefoot and bare-chested alongside the house.

Another of me dealing with the boombox.

More of Harper, tears streaming over her cheeks as she watched.

The carousel’s caption made it all somehow worse.

She lied about being single. Lied about looking for love. She’s only out to break hearts.

Now I’m breaking down her walls. Literally.

“I hate this guy,” I seethed.

“Everyone will see that,” she whispered.

I scrolled through the account. It was all about Harper.