Chapter 9 Rowan
ROWAN
Iknow something’s wrong the second I step into the Palm Breeze lobby, and it has nothing to do with my precious encounter last night with Abilene Snow.
I’ve always been able to sense things. Uncle Nash called it my sixth sense and told me I was lucky to have it. My mother said I was possessed by a demon, which, coincidentally, is also why she sent me away when I was eight years old.
Whatever the reason for it, it’s just another way I’m different from everyone else. I hear people, all the stuff moving around inside them, and I go from there.
And I hear it when I come into work. Fear. Everyone’s afraid.
It’s not like when Mr. Nielson died. I did my job well, so all that generated was a cloud of dark curiosity. Only my Abi knew it was a murder, and that’s because I shared the truth of it with her.
This fear is different, though.
I wade through the thickness of it until I get to the front desk, where Judith has already taken over from Alberto, the night shift worker. When she sees me, her eyes get huge. “Oh my god, did you hear?”
“Hear what?” I adjust the display of seashells and dried starfish we have arranged around our check-in times.
“There was a murder,” she breathes.
I freeze. For a moment, I’m struck with a terribly paralyzing panic that I’ve been caught.
Except I haven’t done anything.
“A murder?” I say carefully, looking over at her.
She nods. “At the gazebo. I don’t know the details, but Marielle’s sister works in the coffee shop that’s over on the square, and she saw everything.”
“Everything,” I repeat numbly.
Julia leans over the counter, dropping her voice to a rough whisper. “The cops are all over the gazebo square,” she says, her fear tightening the words closer together. “She said there was a lot of blood, that they were turning people away because they didn’t want them to see.”
Years of practice have made it easy for me to keep my expression neutral, even if a million neurons are firing off in my brain. Another killer is in town.
I don’t like that. At all.
I think of last night on the beach, that odd, not-quite-human presence I sensed. My skin prickles; the hairs on my arm stand on end. Maybe the presence felt not-quite-human because they’re broken like me.
“Do you know who the victim was?” I ask.
But Julia shakes her head. “Marielle’s sister didn’t know, and I don’t think they’ve released the name yet.” Her fear spikes suddenly through the air, sharp and unmistakable. “Do you think this has anything to do with that lady who came by yesterday? The coroner?”
The question cuts straight through me, and for a second, I forget myself.
“What?” I ask stupidly.
“That lady with the glasses,” Julia says. “Didn’t she think there was something off about the guy who died here a few days ago? I mean, I know that was an accident, but—it’s a weird coincidence, isn’t it?”
I’m suddenly aware of the weight of my phone. Abi. I should make sure Abi’s okay. If that presence followed my tracks back to her house…
A hot, surprising rage twists up in my chest.
“It’s just a coincidence,” I say. “Mr. Nielson’s death was an accident, not a murder. Now, do me a favor and don’t talk about any of this in front of guests. Make sure everyone knows, okay?”
“You got it, boss. But if I hear anything more, you want me to let you know?”
“Sure.” The rage is still there, a wall of fire behind my chest. If anything happened to Abi, there’ll be blood on a lot more than just the fucking gazebo.
I leave Julia at the front desk and duck into my office, clicking the door shut behind me. It’s easier to breathe in here, cut off from the rest of the hotel staff. I lean against the door and take long, deep breaths until I’m calm enough to pull out my phone and open up Abi’s number.
Her picture is still there, her softly sleeping face. The idea of actually calling her is genuinely terrifying, but I think I can manage a text. Just something that will get her to reply, so I don’t spend the whole fucking day agonizing that I got her killed somehow.
Hey. I just wanted to check in to see if you need anything else from the staff.
I read over my text. It’s stupid. She was here yesterday investigating a murder—one of my murders—but now there’s another murder, and it’s dumb not to mention that.
Isn’t it? Because Rowan Hanover, the owner of the Palm Breeze Hotel, wouldn’t actually know that they’re unrelated. He’d assume the worst, like Julia.
Abilene Snow wouldn’t, though. She knows I was with her last night.
I delete everything. The last thing I need is for her to link my identities.
So I try again.
This is Rowan Hanover. I heard there was another death. I hope they aren’t related, but I wanted to check if there was anything else you needed from me.
I read over it. Better. I tell myself I just need a response. This is to make sure she’s safe.
I send it off. Delivered, the message says.
My throat constricts.
I carry my phone over to my desk, open up my computer, and immediately search for the death.
Julia’s right; they haven’t released the name of the victim.
And what details are out there don’t exactly make me feel better.
They found the body early this morning. They have no current leads.
Several local authorities are cooperating on the investigation.
I’m just about to tell Julia I’m taking the day off when my phone buzzes against my desk. I snatch it up, and relief slams through me.
Abi responded.
Abi Snow
Hi. Thanks for checking in. No, I don’t think they are related.
I slump back in my chair and let out a long, low breath. Still, I feel jittery. I don’t like the idea that there’s another killer in my territory. Abi lives alone, and I know from personal experience that her house isn’t exactly secure. What if this person comes after her next?
I pull up a map of Rosado on my computer, zooming in until I have a view of the intersection where Neptune’s Adventure is. That presence I felt—it had the air of a predator. Of someone like me.
I wonder if I could lure him to the mini golf course. Two birds with one stone, as they say. I continue my message to Abi while clearing out this interloper in the process.
My phone chimes again, and when I glance over at it, my heart skips.
Another text from Abi.
This is going to sound crazy, and you can say no if you want, but do you want to grab a coffee this afternoon? Maybe at Seaside Brews?
All my vision tunnels down to her text. Did she ask me out?
I think of her warm body, her soft panty breath, the heat between her legs.
She didn’t know that was you, dumb ass.
I pick up the phone, still staring down at her message. Seaside Brews. That’s just across the street from the hotel. I’ve never been, although my staff are always bringing in coffees from there, the cups emblazoned with neon-colored palm trees.
I keep expecting Abi’s message to vanish, like it’s a mirage. A hallucination. But it stays put, the cursor in the reply box blinking steadily. I wonder if she can see that I’ve read her message, a thought that fills me with a sudden torrent of panic. I don’t want her to think I’m blowing her off.
Yes, of course.
I can’t believe I just did that. Can’t believe this is happening.
Oh, that’s great! Meet in 30 minutes?
My heart thunders as I reply back with another yes. I’d meet her there in five minutes if she asked me. I’d do anything she asked me.
I stare at the map on my computer screen, the familiar roads of Rosado crisscrossing over my monitor.
An auspicious kill in so many ways, it seems. Not just that it’s K, or that it’s completing the next word.
But that it’s the first kill after she came to me as Rowan, and after I went to her as myself.
The first kill after she’s spoken to both sides of me, the disguise and the truth.
I don’t ask why it’s all happening now. Maybe I should. I know Uncle Nash would tell me to be suspicious, but that’s because he beat into me since I was a boy that the only person I could trust was him.
And that’s just because he wanted to use my violence for his own purposes.
I clear out the map, erase my browser history, take a deep breath.
Remind myself that, despite what happened last night, she’s meeting Rowan Hanover.
I have to keep my disguise in place, even if it tears at something in my chest, knowing she would never have asked the real me out to coffee at Seaside Brews.
It doesn’t matter. The real me will still be there, lurking inside this shell.