Page 16 of Half the Summer's Night
“Yes,” he says, sliding his hand over my belly. “Because I wanted to tell you what a good job you’re doing.”
He stops just before his fingers meet the seam of my legs. I don’t know why he doesn’t just take what he wants. That’s what evil men do. I know that firsthand, don’t I?
“May I touch you?” he asks roughly, his fingers tightening against my belly.
A new heat surges through me. A terrible desire to say yes. When was the last time a man asked to touch me?
“You’re already touching me,” I say. “You kissed me.”
He goes quiet, his hand a searing heat on my belly. “That was a taste,” he says, almost defensively. “I want totouchyou.”
“Why?” I twist against him, like I might look at him. What little of him I can see.
“Because you’re beautiful,” he answers.
I rip away from him, my heart pounding. He lets me go, even when I whirl around on him, my hands balled into fists. I can feel him staring at me from behind his mask, his eyes as hot as fire.
“Who are you?” I hiss.
“I am exactly what you think I am,” he responds.
And then he ducks out of the doorway, leaving me alone with my map of his crimes.
6
ROWAN
Itear across Hatch Street Burial Grounds, adrenaline surging me forward. I can’t believe I did any of that. I can’t believe I touched her. Orkissedher.
Everything was heightened in the office. Abi herself was a riot of sound and scent: heartbeat and breath and fast-pumping blood. She smelled brighter and sweeter, like I was choking on hyacinth and funeral orchids. If she had run, I could have tracked her across the county on the trail of her scent alone.
That sort of thing happens to me when I’m going after a kill. But I wasn’t going to kill Abi. I willneverkill Abi.
I leap over the fence and land on my feet, never once slowing down as I leave the cemetery behind me. I fucked up, I know. I pushed her too far. I shouldn’t have asked to touch her?—
You should have just done it.
The thought comes to me in Uncle Nash’s voice, because it’s something Uncle Nash would say. But I’m not him. I won’t hurt her. I shouldn’t have even kissed her like that, but she was so close, her eyes huge behind her glasses as she drank in my killing face, and I wanted her to bless it with her lips.
And then it wasn’t enough, that blessing. Nor was it enough when I pulled the mask away so there wouldn’t be any numbingbarrier between us. That’s why I asked to touch her, and why I ran when she didn’t give me permission.
Because I was afraid of what I would have done to her if I stayed. I know I’m a monster. I know my killing face represents my true soul.
I careen through the scrubby open field that juts against the cemetery, the barrier between the dead and the beach. This isn’t a great place for me to be, and I force myself to slow down so I can stick close to the spindly mesquite trees that offer almost nothing in the way of camouflage. Beachside Boulevard is several yards to my left, and even though it’s probably after midnight, I still hear the occasional sigh of a car as it drives past.
I don’t want to think that Abi will call the cops on me. But I’m sure she has.
I keep myself low to the ground, moving quickly. I don’t tire easily, which has always been a boon given what I like to do in my spare time, and the adrenaline of speaking to Abi twice in one day—once as Rowan, and once as myself, something I never thought was even possible—gives me an extra boost of speed. It’s not long before the smell of the ocean overpowers Abi’s lingering scent, not long before I hear the waves rolling into the shore.
I take my killing face off before I step out onto the cracked, weatherworn sidewalk that runs parallel to the beach. This isn’t the main strand, but there are houses here, shabby little bungalows like the one I call home. Although my house is about a mile from here, right at the place where the string of hotels and restaurants begins.
No one’s out, fortunately. The houses are all dark. Still, I walk as if I live there, sliding off my gloves and tucking them into my killing face, which I press under my arm so it’s not obvious what it is. Dunes crest up ahead, the vines silvery in the moonlight, and I walk parallel to them until I come to one of the boardwalks, gritty with wet sand from the tar showers.
When I finally see the beach proper, with its pale, packed sand and dark mounds of seaweed, I can finally relax. I always feel safer on the beach. I suppose it’s because I imagine I can dive into the waves and swim away from danger.
Or maybe it’s because I always come this way when I visit Abi, and I know there’s a bathroom up ahead, a standalone brick building locked up for the night. Two years ago, when Abi came back to Rosado, I loosened some of the bricks in the side of the bathroom so I would have an easy place to hide things. Like my gloves. My killing face. My shoes, too, which are black boots that look absurd on the beach. If the police somehow find me out here, I won’t look like the monster who just finished terrorizing the woman he loves. I’ll look like the insomniac I also am, wiling the night away by the shore.
I cram everything into my hiding hole and slide the bricks back in place. I’ll be back tomorrow morning to fetch everything, but I tell myself it’ll be safe for now. My gloves and shoes and socks I’m not worried about, but I don’t want to lose my killing face. Especially since Abi?—
