Page 5 of Midnight Enemy

Scarlett looks astonished, as if she doesn’t believe that someone would ever say anything like that to her.

A seed of guilt blooms in my chest and spreads through me. I shift in my chair and roll my right shoulder with a wince. “I’m sorry,” I say grumpily. “I came off my motorbike a few weeks ago, and I’m in pain this morning. It’s no excuse for being rude, though. I apologize.”

She blinks, and then her gaze skims down my body, as soft as a brush of her hand would be. I wait for her to say, ‘Good, I’m glad it hurts,’ or something similar.

Instead, she says, “I saw the graze on your temple and wondered how you got it.”

“He had a concussion,” Jack says, because he knows I wouldn’t have admitted it.

She frowns. “Are you getting headaches?”

I give a terse nod.

Sympathy flickers on her face. “I’m sorry I banged my bike into your knee.”

Surprised, I say, “That’s okay. My knees are fine. Well, they were.”

Her lips twitch. Then she says, “I’m very sorry to hear you had an accident. What happened?”

“Another driver took his eye off the road to check his phone, swerved across the road, and rammed my motorbike.”

“Orson’s dog was in the carrier on the back of the bike,” Jack says. “Unfortunately he was killed.”

Her eyebrows lift, and her mouth opens. “Oh no.”

As always, when I think about Doyle, my throat tightens, and I have to swallow hard.

“I’m so terribly sorry,” she says, and she rests a hand on my arm. “I know dogs are a man’s best friend.”

I look down at it, shocked that she’d offer me comfort after I’ve been so rude to her. This girl has just lost her parents, and she’s being kind enough to console me on the death of my dog.

She has light-brown skin, and her hands are smooth and unlined, with short, neat nails, absent of fake painted talons or French polish. She squeezes my arm lightly, then removes her hand, although her gaze lingers on mine. I’m so taken aback, I don’t know what to say.

“Why don’t we start again?” Jack asks. “So, about the sale…”

“I’m here to gather information,” Scarlett interjects, “and take it back to the Elders for discussion. But I can tell you now that I am vehemently opposed to the sale of the Waiora, and I will fight that every step of the way.”

“Let me explain our plans,” I say, “and maybe you’ll change your mind. We’d like to offer fifteen million dollars for the Waiora and the strip of land surrounding it.”

Her eyebrows rise. I know that the Elders would have had the land valued, just like us, and she would know it’s worth around ten million. So fifteen is a very generous offer.

I continue, “Along with that, I’d give the commune permanent access to the Waiora in the form of a right-of-way easement. We would also invest a significant amount of money into developing the area to make it safer and more accessible. We’d create well-signposted walking paths from both the resort and the commune that lead to a paved area around the pool with seating and sheltered areas, bathroom facilities, a changing room, maybe even a small cafe…” I stop as Scarlett inhales, her eyes widening. “Don’t pop a blood vessel,” I say sarcastically. “Everything would be negotiable. Let me show you the plans.”

“I don’t want to see the plans.”

I ignore her, take the roll of paper from Jack, and spread it out on the table, holding it down both ends with books. “Look,” I say, directing her gaze down. “These would be the paths, and there would be a safe paved area on either side of the pool here and here. I’d also suggest a bridge across the top of the waterfall where the stepping stones are now. You must have noticed that some of the stones are uneven. It won’t be long before a kid falls in and goes head first over the waterfall.”

Her gaze skims across the plan, and she studies it silently for a while. I let her look, glancing at Jack, who lifts his eyebrows, suggesting he’s glad she’s considering it, at least.

“What are those?” she asks stiffly, pointing to a series of circles on her side of the pool on the right.

“I thought it would be cool to create a series of nooks for you. Maybe like small gazebos, covered over to provide some shelter for when you take groups down there. They’d be private, and fitted with whatever you’d like to make it pleasant there, like outdoor cushions, fairy lights, as much kale as you can eat…” I’m half-teasing.

But her eyes flare. “Fairy lights? Kale? We’re not running a mind, body, and spirit fair. The retreat is a serious place for women and children to escape from abusive relationships and to recover and heal.”

Jack massages his brow again.

I knew the commune ran a retreat, but I hadn’t looked into it, and I’d assumed it was some hippie bullshit thing where they all sit around chanting and striking bells or dancing naked under the moonlight.

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