Page 57 of Half the Summer's Night
“Yeah, me neither.” We drift toward the golf course. My whole body is on high alert. My brain is screaming at me that I’m a fool. That she’ll recognize me—my voice, my eyes. Something. And then all my carefully constructed plans will blow with the wind.
But I also don’t want to miss another second with her. And besides, as long as she’s with me, then I know she’s safe.
We walk up to the ticket counter, and the teenager in the back looks at us, bored. Even with Abi at my side, my brain still clicks through the checklist of preparing for a kill. There’s the scene to set, the accident to emulate. And, of course, the victim, the centerpiece of the whole operation.
I glance sideways at Abi, wondering if she can feel my thoughts the way I can feel hers. But she just meets my glance and smiles a little, her cheeks pink.
“How many?” the teenager drawls, like we’ve irritated him. If he were older, he might make a good victim. And if Abi hadn’t seen his face.
Shit. Abi. My little detective might make the link between Rowan Hanover and me, won’t she? This was a mistake. A big, big mistake.
But it’s also too late, because Abi’s saying, “Two, please,” and pulling her credit card out of the little purse she has slung over her shoulder.
I panic, briefly. Partially because I may have laid the groundwork for her connecting my two identities, and partially because I feel like I’m the one who’s supposed to pay.
“I’ve got it,” Abi says suddenly, almost like she really can read my mind. “Since I forced myself on you and all.”
“You didn’t. Really.”
She’s already sliding her card across the counter. The teenager looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here.
“I know. It was just a joke.” Her eyes gleam mischievously, which makes my heart flip around. “But you also paid for my coffee last time. Figured it was my turn.”
The teenager gives her back her card along with a couple of bright orange mini golf clubs. “Can grab your score pads there.” He tilts his head vaguely. “Or download our app.”
Abi grins brightly at me as she hands over the club. “Want me to download the app?”
“We don’t need to keep score.” As soon as I say it, I wonder if it’s the wrong thing. “I mean, unless you want to.”
She shrugs. “That’s fine with me. I’m not really competitive.”
We go over to the first hole, which is guarded by an oversized fiberglass tortoise. It’s simple, with no moving parts. I’m gonna need moving parts for my kill. I’m thinking a mechanical accident.
Abi, though, lets out a little laugh of delight. “Look at that,” she says. “A big-ass turtle.”
“This entire course is big-ass animals,” I say, which makes Abi laugh. My chest constricts. Rowan Hanover can make her laugh. ButIcan’t.
I let Abi go first, like a gentleman, and then we settle into the game. It’s nice out here. Hot, yes, but the wind is up, and it blows Abi’s scent over me as we move from one hole to the next. Here’s one with a giant ant. Here’s one with a glittering fish. Here’s one with an enormous, pearly pink conch shell where you have to shoot the golf ball into its spiraled center and out the other side.
This one causes Abi an endless stream of consternation. There’s only a narrow slot where the ball can fit, and she keepsmissing it by a few centimeters. “Oh my god!” she shouts on her fifth try. “It’s the wind!”
“You want me to do it for you?” I peer around the corner of the shell, where I’m tapping my own ball toward the hole. Abi just huffs, blowing her hair out of her face.
“No,” she says darkly. “It’s a matter of honor.”
I chuckle at that. She squares up her shoulders like she’s a golfer on TV, switching her gaze back and forth between the ball and the shell. Then she pulls back, takes a deep breath, and swings.
The ball slams against the shell’s wall and ricochets off the green.
“Motherfucker!” Abi shouts, then promptly slaps her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide. “Sorry,” she stages-whispers to me. “Did you see where my ball went?”
“Yeah, it’s in the palms there.” I step off the green and over to a big spray of leaves bobbing gently in the wind. A couple of men are on the other side of the plant bed, laughing raucously. I can smell the tequila and lime on them. Tourists.
They glance over at me as I fumble around for the ball. One of them says something, although I’m not paying enough attention to hear. The other laughs, mutters something back. Look at me again.
No. Not at me. Past me. At Abi.
Rage flares in my chest, and I remember, with a sudden, vicious clarity, why I’m here. I’ve been having fun with Abi—trailing alongside her, cheering her on when she makes a hole, laughing with her when she misses one. But I’d forgotten that I’m actually here to plan my next kill.
