Page 39 of A Game So Reckless

“Three men, two women.”

Three men in the house beside her.

Don’t fucking like that.

“The house on the other side, which is also the last property on the beach, is currently unoccupied. The owner died recently, and the estate is selling the property.”

My bloodshot eyes burn. Something in my brain feels like it’s going to burst.

“It’s for sale right now?”

“Yeah.” Rowan slides a paper from the pile and holds it up, showing me a printout of a real estate listing. The house is even bigger than the Titone property, a sprawling grey stone mansion among the water and the trees and the rocks. There’s a nice-looking deck boat tethered to the dock. Beside the photo of the property, I scan the listing’s information, including the asking price: 2.4 million dollars.

I tear the sheet in half.

Then, I rise from my chair and shove the ripped paper against Rowan’s chest.

“It’s not for sale anymore.”

Rowan takes the ruined paper from me and then sets it down. He’s already pulling up the realtor’s information on his phone as I brush by him.

“Make it happen, Rowan,” I tell him. “I don’t care what it costs. Don’t care what it takes. You need to double their asking price? Do it. You need to put a bomb in the estate executor’s car? Do it.” I open the door to leave and give him one last look over my shoulder as I go. “I want the keys in my hand tonight.”

Chapter20

Valentina

On the fifth day of our pastoral summer exile, Mamma and I go for a walk, as has become our routine since arrival. We don’t go too early in the morning, as one or both of us is usually sleeping off and then slowly caffeinating away the effects of too many drinks the day before. With nothing else to do besides swim, lie around in the sun, or watch old DVDs, eating random selections of cheese and meat and drinking wine all day has become one of our main pastimes.

That, and the walks.

Mamma insists on them, and I don’t have any real objections. It’s good to get off the property, to go back out into the world, even if going out into the world is just walking along the sunny, tree-lined beach road and then turning around and walking all the way back twenty minutes later.

As soon as we’re up and out of the driveway and on the road, Mamma is already ahead of me, pumping her arms, her hands in determined fists. She’s very into power walking and wants to work up as much of a sweat as possible. Something about toxins. Me, I’m already getting sweaty just walking at a normal speed in the battering humidity, so I keep my pace a little slower. Stopping to smell the roses and all that good stuff. Even if there aren’t any roses along the road. I’ll stop and smell the wild garlic and daisies, I guess.

It's all very meditative. Very zen. By the time I come back to the city, I swear I’m going to be a brand-new woman. A woman who’s forgotten all about Darragh Gowan.

Even if the forgetting part hasn’t quite happened yet.

But it will.

Because Mamma is off like an espresso-powered shot, she doesn’t notice what I notice today. That there’s a new vehicle parked at the cottage at the end of the road.

I stop walking and find myself squinting behind my oversized cat-eye sunglasses. I don’t know what sort of vehicle it is, but it’s big and shiny and very, very nice. It’s got hard, boxy lines, like it could take out an army tank all on its own, and the paint job is the most luxurious forest green I’ve ever seen.

I don’t think that’s Mr. Robinson’s car. He always drove a pick-up truck, and I learned that he recently passed away. Maybe it’s one of his kids’ vehicles. I think he had a daughter who lives in Alberta.

Curious, I walk in the opposite direction of Mamma, who’s already at least a hundred metres down the road. Gravel crunches and skitters beneath my white running shoes. The sun sinks into my hair like tattooed fingers.

No, not fingers. Like sunlight. Because that’s what it is. And if someone had their fingers buried in my hair recently it doesn’t fucking matter because I’ve already forgotten.

Annoyed, I pull my hair up into a big knot on the top of my head, tying it with a scrunchy. I haven’t bothered straightening or blow drying it since arriving here, and the thick, curly texture of it is out in full force. By the time my hair is secured, I’ve reached the circular driveway of Mr. Robinson’s place with the giant green vehicle. I don’t see anything else new or out of place. The beautiful stone mansion looks the same as it always has. Mr. Robinson’s boat is sitting on a metal dolly, ready to be hoisted down the tracks at the side of the house and into the water beyond.

Movement in one of the house’s upper story windows tears my attention from the boat. I peer upwards, but see nothing up there now but cloaking shadows, contrasting with the dreamy haze of sun drenching me now. If someone was in that room, it looks like they’re gone now. They don’t appear at another window, nor do they come downstairs to open their front door to say hello. Shrugging, I turn away and head back into the road.

I pass our own cottage, which is quiet, and then the next one, which isn’t. Music and squealing voices drift from the front of the house near the water. There are five people partying there this week. I’ve seen them drinking out on their dock and splashing around in the cold water. From what I’ve gathered, it seems to be two couples and a fifth guy who’s tagged along with them. I’ve noticed the fifth guy’s eyes on me a few times so far, when I’m tanning on our dock or swimming. But apart from responding politely to him when he grins and waves at me from across the water, I haven’t ventured into more of an interaction than that.

There’s something very isolating about hanging out with people who aren’t in the life. Who don’t come from the same world I do. I see that blonde guy, with his normal friends and his vacation time from his normal job and his easy, normal smiles, and I feel like we’re practically different species.

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