Page 88 of Archer

“This is good, right? Fresh evidence?” I had no idea how a storage unit might help, but he’d stopped going to work and wasn’t at his last known address, so anything sounded better than nothing right now. To me, but not to Archer, it seemed.

“Yeah.” He dragged his gaze to meet mine. “I’m sure it’s good news.”

My momentary bubble of hope deflated. “Really? You should tell your face.”

Archer’s lips quirked, not quite managing a smile. “We’ll know more soon. Nashville PD got a warrant, and they’re processing it now.”

He slid his arms around me and stood with ease. I grabbed onto his shoulders.

“I’ve got you.” He turned and carried me back inside with him. “It’s too cold outside for this outfit. Colton will call back when there’s news.”

I didn’t disagree about the temperature or my cotton sleep shorts and t-shirt.

The phone rang again before we reached the couch.

Archer set me on my feet, but I curled onto a cushion immediately, working to contain the nervous energy. Because, in this situation, a fast response probably wasn’t good. I’d expected to hear more in a day or two, when authorities had time to sort through everything inside a storage container. Not the minute they walked inside.

Knox’s face appeared with a request for a video call. Archer accepted, then Nash and Colton joined as well.

“Should we be concerned?” Archer asked.

I leaned against his side when he sat, both to get a better look at the screen and to absorb a little of his strength when my anxiety skyrocketed.

“Hang on,” Colton said. “Nashville PD sent some footage to Nash, and he’s going to screen share so we can all see what they found.” Colton’s gaze moved away from the camera as the sounds of a keyboard sped up.

Nash and Knox looked as forlorn as Archer had on the deck.

“All right,” Colton said. “That should do it. You’re up.”

“Before I share,” Nash said, his voice careful, “Harper, this is going to be disturbing. If you want a minute, we aren’t in any rush.”

Gooseflesh pebbled my skin. What could that mean? They’d located a storage unit, for goodness sakes.

“I’m okay.” My voice came out steadier than I felt. “Let’s keep moving forward.”

Nash nodded, then our screen filled with shaky footage from a body cam. An officer entering a storage unit, the metal door rolling up. Lights switched on.

My breath stopped at the sight of the interior.

The space wasn’t filled with boxes and old furniture as I’d expected. Instead, every inch had been transformed into some kind of bizarre living space, or a replica of one. White Christmas lights strung along the ceiling created a soft glow. A small loveseat faced a TV on a stand. A makeshift kitchenette had been set up in one corner: hot plate, mini fridge, microwave on a folding table.

And the walls were papered with my concert posters.

Dozens of them. From every tour I’d done. Every venue I’d visited. Magazine spreads. Candid photos printed and pinned in overlapping layers.

“Jesus,” Knox breathed.

The camera panned right. Other walls contained my tour merchandise. T-shirts stretched on frames, guitar picks in shadow boxes, setlists behind glass.

My stomach pitched and rolled as a mannequin came into view. It stood in the corner wearing a red wig that matched my hair, and the figure held an inflatable guitar in its stiff, gray arms. Someone had dressed the mannequin in an apron that said “Harper’s Kitchen” in glittery pink letters.

I covered my mouth as a wave of nausea hit. I wanted to be sick, but I couldn’t bring myself to look away from the feed.

The camera moved closer to a corkboard covered in torn paper and cutout images, like a big scrapbook page or vision board. Several words were written in thick dark marker and circled in red. Destiny. Soul mates. Forever.

“Nashville PD is cataloging everything,” Nash said quietly. “They’re documenting the journals stacked on the table and anything else that might lead us to his next move. So far, it seems that he’s been writing about you for over a year. Daily entries about places you’ve been, things you’ve said in interviews, his interpretation of your song lyrics as messages to him.”

Archer’s hand found mine beneath the table. His grip was almost painful.