Page 43 of Half the Summer's Night
I curl my hands up, my skin already sweating beneath my medical gloves. I should not be as okay with this as I am. I should be horrified, actually. I should turn myself in, tell the police everything. It’s not likeIkilled him, and even if I did, it would have been self-defense.
It was self-defense with Blake Fletcher, too, and plenty of people didn’t give a shit about that. Include Sheriff Kaplan.
The body lies there, waiting for me. Fingerprints. That would be the first step to finding out who he is. See if he’s in the system.Dental work comes next. He doesn’t have any tattoos that I can see. No other obvious distinguishing marks.
And somehow, I get to work.
17
ROWAN
It’s been nearly a week, and it seems my Abi has passed her test.
I keep an eye on the news all week, checking it compulsively when I’m at home or alone in my office at the hotel. There was a single story about a body found off Pier Fourteen on the local news, and then nothing more. “The police do not suspect foul play,” the pretty newscaster says in a segment uploaded to YouTube. “But the city would like to use the incident to remind anyone visiting the beach to mind all safety and warning signs before entering the water.”
They don’t share the man’s name, which irritates me. As pleased as I am that Abi understood what I needed her to do, that she covered up the death as beautifully as she tends to the cemetery before the heat of the day settles in, I want his identity.
I lean back on my couch as the video ends. There are a handful of comments underneath it, all variations on what a terrible tragedy it was. More irritation rankles in my belly. It wasn’t a tragedy at all. He deserved his death. Certainly more than most of the people I’ve killed since Uncle Nash.
I toss my phone aside. The sun’s just starting to set, which means it’ll be time for my nightly visit to Abi’s house. I’ve beenwatching her every night since it happened, of course. As soon as full dark hits, I’m patrolling the cemetery and her property both, checking in on her through the windows when I can. I haven’t gone inside, though, not even when she’s asleep. I know that if I do that, I won’t be able to stop myself from touching her.
So I stay out in the hot, humid night, my killing face keeping me hidden. No one’s come for her. I haven’t even felt that odd, inhuman presence again. Not at her house, not on the beach. Nowhere.
It’s vanished.
That makes me a bit nervous, I’ll admit. I tell myself I scared him off.
When night falls, I make the trek to Abi’s. On foot, like always—the last thing I need is Rowan Hanover’s car to be spotted by the Hatch Street Burial Grounds. But the walk isn’t far. It’s why I bought the beach bungalow where I did. To be closer to her.
Her house looks as it has all week. Dark. Shut up tight. I keep a wide berth around the front porch—there’s a camera installed there now, right above the doorbell. It appeared at the same time the door was repaired. I don’t blame her for it, not really, but it means I can’t check the integrity of the lock.
I make the rest of my rounds as usual. I sniff the air to see if anyone’s close by. I double-check that the darkened windows downstairs are locked. I try the back entrance. When I’m satisfied, I make my way to the oak tree and shimmy up the trunk.
She’s watching TV tonight, the way she does most nights. I don’t recognize what’s on the screen, but it looks like science fiction. A ship in deep space, dark industrial corridors, computers blinking like Christmas lights.
I wish I could be in there with her. She’s anxious, as she has been all week, although it seems worse tonight. I don’t like that. I don’t like not knowing why.
Whatever she’s watching ends, the credits blinking by on the screen. Abi sits forward and rakes her fingers through her hair, then stands and, to my dismay, walks out of the living room.
Damn it. I had just settled in, and there’s no other tree that lines up with any of the other second-floor windows.
I slide out of the branches, keeping my eyes on the house. The lights in the window tell me where she’s going. I assumed it was to bed, even though it’s still early, but no—the light in the stairwell window snaps on, bright and unexpected. I watch her shadow move past it, then follow the trail of illuminated glass until she gets to her kitchen.
The kitchen is the only part of the living quarters that’s downstairs, since everything else down there makes up the funeral parlor. Unfortunately, it only has one small window that doesn’t show much of anything. I stick to the shadows, watching Abi move back and forth in front of it.
Then the kitchen light goes out.
I creep around the side of the house, waiting to see where the light trail takes me. But everything stays dark. I close my eyes and try to see her that way—through sound and presence. I can feel her, a heart beating inside the house’s wooden and brick walls, but I can’t tell where she’s going. There’s only the sense of movement, and sadness, and fear.
It cracks my heart in two.
And then suddenly, all of Abi’s stormy emotions are blaring like an alarm. And then I smell her, a sweet and honeyed ribbon on the wind.
She’s outside.
For a moment, I’m paralyzed with uncertainty. Did she hear me? Are there more cameras that I can’t sense? Is sheleaving?
No. I don’t think it’s the last one. And her fear is dull and quiet. A background fear, not the spike of adrenaline I would expect if she had seen an intruder.
