Epilogue
ABI
SIX MONTHS LATER
Ihum along to the music spilling out of the speakers, some old pop song that was popular when I was in college. Penelope, Chloe, and I used to dance to it during late nights when we smuggled wine and weed into the dorm, and it always makes me think of them.
They know about Rowan now. Well, most of it. There are some things you can’t share over Zoom calls, but the next time we’re together in person—maybe. I don’t like keeping secrets from them.
I move around the body on the examination table.
A woman named Mildred Morris from the nearby retirement home, dead from a stroke.
I already found the clot that blocked the blood flowing to her brain, and I’m moving through the rest of the autopsy on autopilot.
I’ve got a bit of a backlog, although things are settling down now that Rosado has finally elected a new sheriff.
A woman, surprisingly, one of Kaplan’s captains who came forward with evidence that he had covered up at least three murders. She’d been investigating him, it seems.
I like her enough that I told Rowan he has to take his kills out of the county, so I don’t have to cover for him. And of course he agreed.
After all, he doesn’t need them to speak to me anymore, does he?
My phone’s timer goes off, startling me out of my thoughts. It’s 6:30 P.M., and although I need to catch up on my backlog, that timer is sacrosanct. It tells me when to stop for the day.
Nervous excitement flutters around in my belly.
I turn it off and clean up my work as quickly as I can, then slide Mildred back into her refrigeration unit.
I wash my hands, scrubbing them with soap until they feel tight and antiseptic.
The whole time, my excitement builds up.
I’ve always liked winter—the empty beaches, the cooler weather. But now, I like the early dark, too.
As soon as I’m done, I do a once-over to check that everything is in its place. Then I go out and lock up the examination room and head outside by way of the back door.
The night is chilly and windswept, and I wish I had thrown on a sweater before coming out here. Not that it matters. I’ll be plenty warm in no time.
I switch on my phone’s flashlight and shine it out into the surrounding trees, flashing it over the dark, bare branches. “Here I am,” I murmur, knowing he can hear me. It’s shocking, the things Rowan knows and senses. But exciting, too.
I walk around the side of the house, my heart beating fast. All I can hear is the wind, howling as it blows through the trees.
By the time I get to my flower garden—dead for the winter, full of old, dried-up stems that I leave out for the insects—I’m shivering, my arms wrapped tight around my chest. But I don’t go inside.
Something crackles behind me, and I whip around, shining my flashlight. My fear blooms a little, although it’s not real fear. It’s horror movie fear. Haunted house fear. The kind of thrilling fear you experience when you know you aren’t really in danger.
“Hello?” I call out, my voice catching on the wind. “Is someone out there?”
I already know the answer, but it’s still fun to pretend.
More rustling footsteps. I whip around again, bringing the flashlight with me. And this time, I’m rewarded with a brief glimpse of a dark figure in a twisted mask.
My excitement surges. So does an anticipatory heat between my legs.
Then I take off running.
I bound across the front yard, pumping my arms and legs through the cold, gusting wind. Footsteps fall into a rhythm behind me. He’s going slow. Giving me time to try and get away from him.
I have never gotten away from him, and I don’t ever want to.
I slam up against the gate of the cemetery and drop my phone into the grass, face down so the flashlight shoots a column of light up around the fence.
I fumble with the unlocked latch and swing the gate open, feeling his presence behind me, nameless and faceless.
I risk one glance over my shoulder and find him standing on the curb, watching me in the dark.
I duck through the gate and run into the cemetery.
Rowan follows.
This time, he isn’t going slow. I run as fast as I can, my body stiff from the cold, but he’s always faster. His heavy boots pound against the dirt, and I weave through the tombstones, zig-zagging my way toward the row of pecan trees.
I don’t make it. Strong arms grab my waist and pull me backward, my feet lifting off the grass. I shriek in surprise, but a gloved hand slaps across my mouth, muffling me. I moan into the familiar leather and slump back against his sturdy body, already squirming with need.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Rowan rasps into my ear.
It’s funny, how different he sounds when he’s wearing the mask—his killing face, he still calls it sometimes, although that’s rare. And getting rarer, the longer we’re together.
“Let me go,” I say into the glove, my words muffled. Lies, and we both know it.
Rowan chuckles. “I don’t think so.”
He whirls me around and tosses me into the cold grass. I cry out and make a half-hearted attempt to crawl away. He’s too quick for me, though. He throws himself on top of me, pinning my arms overhead. His mask leers, and my clit pulses at the sight of those ugly features.
“You kept me waiting,” Rowan purrs, wedging his hips between my legs. I can feel his erection straining against his pants. “You know I don’t like to wait.”
I whimper softly, rolling my hips up against him. “I’m sorry, baby,” I mutter. “You know how busy I’ve been.”
“You work too much.” Rowan pins down both of my arms with one hand while he slides the other between my legs to gently cup my pussy, his palm grinding up against his clit.
I moan softly, bucking into his touch. “Well,” I pant out, “Not all of us have—oh, fuck! Seasonal jobs—”
Rowan yanks my yoga pants down and grunts in appreciation when he sees I’m wearing nothing underneath. I squirm against the cold ground, aching with need. Rowan just slides his fingers along my slit, teasing me.
“I work all year long,” Rowan growls. “Someone’s got to keep you coroners busy.”
He slides one finger inside my pussy, and I groan at the intrusion.
No matter how many different ways he touches me—out here in the cold graveyard, up in my warm bed, in the big sunny suite on the top floor of the Palm Breeze Hotel, which is always unbooked this time of year—nothing compares to that first touch of his leather-covered finger pushing up into my cunt.
“Fuck,” I gasp. “More.”
He pushes another finger inside me, stretching me wide to the cold. “Like that?”
“Yes,” I gasp, shoving my hips toward his hand. For a few minutes, he fucks me with his hand, sliding his two fingers and out of me with his slow, careful precision. I shudder, legs quaking, on the verge of orgasm—
And he pulls his hand away.
“Not yet.” He slides his hand up under my shirt, then under my bra, so he can squeeze and massage my breasts. I stare up at his mask. At his eyes, burning behind the mask. Burning straight into me.
“Take it off,” I say huskily. “I want to see you.”
He leans back on his heels, taking his hands with him. “Touch yourself,” he orders, and I do, snaking one hand between my legs and grabbing at my breast with the other. For a moment, he just watches me, silent and dark like the killer he is.
Then he pulls the mask away.
It’s still a surprise, seeing Rowan beneath that twisted face. Sweet, shy Rowan, who curls up on the couch with me to watch horror movies. Who helps me make dinner and holds my hand whenever we walk along the beach, just out of reach of the cold, foamy waves.
But Rowan isn’t what he seems to be. And neither, I know, am I.
“Better?” he asks, still in his rough, gravelly killer’s voice.
“Fuck me,” I pant. “Please.”
Rowan grins. Then he unzips his jeans and pulls his cock out. I can barely see it in the dark. He bats it against my pussy, against my clit. More teasing. I moan.
“You’re so fucking mean,” I whine.
“I’m a killer,” he says. “Be grateful this is all I’m doing.”
I smack him for that. Or try to. He catches my hand before I can make impact.
“I do the spanking around here,” he says.
Then he rolls me over, pressing me face down into the grass. I groan and lift my ass for him. The first strike of his leather-covered hand rings out into the cold, windy night and makes my flesh sting.
“Again,” I pant.
He hits the other side of my ass, a little harder. Heat sparks in my clit. The third strike makes me groan and shudder, and Rowan rewards me by sliding his fingers down into my slit again.
“I can feel how wet you are even through my gloves.” He draws his hand away and climbs on top of me, his cock pressing up against my pussy.
He pulls my hair to the side and nuzzles my neck, his mouth leaving blooming spots of warmth on my skin.
“Are you ready for me, little detective? Ready for your killer’s cock? ”
“Yes,” I cry. “Please. I can’t fucking stand it anymore.”
“I love when you beg like that.” Rowan shifts around behind me, arranging his cock at my entrance. I spread my legs and lift my ass in anticipation.
He shoves in with one thrust, and I cry out again, digging my hands into the dirt.
“Fuck, I’ll never get tired of that,” he gasps. It doesn’t sound like he’s talking to me but to the dark, sweeping night. The night that brought us together.
He braces his arms on the ground beside me as he starts to rock into my cunt, slow and teasing.
I push up on my elbows so I can rock back into him, matching his rhythm.
The old, mossy gravestones rise around us, shielding us from anyone driving by on Hatch Street.
And I don’t care that it’s cold and damp and windy.
This is exactly where I want my killer to fuck me—in the dark, surrounded by the dead.
His thrusts quicken. So does his breath, hot against the top of my back. I bite my lip, trying to stop my moans and failing. They fall out of my mouth like flower petals, small and inconsequential. But his thick cock is striking against my G-spot, pulling the pleasure out of my body.
“You’re going to come for me,” he pants, lowering himself down on top of me so he can kiss the back of my neck between words. “I can feel it.”
“Tell me,” I pant out.
“Your heart’s already racing,” he purrs. “All the blood is going to your cunt.”
I fuck back on him harder.
“I can smell your arousal,” he continues, brushing his lips over my upper back. “Sweet as orchids. It changes right before you come.”
I squeeze the dirt and clench my pussy around his cock. I’m right on the edge, all my muscles squeezing up tight.
“That scent,” he purrs. “The scent of you coming? It’s my favorite fucking smell in the whole world. It’s like lemon and lilies and death all wrapped up together.”
I groan, loud enough that someone could hear. I don’t care. Rowan thrusts harder.
“I can smell it now,” he whispers into my ear. “You’re on your way, little detective.”
My orgasm hits me in waves. I scream into the grass, bucking up against Rowan as pleasure surges through me like a rip tide, threatening to drag me away. But Rowan pins me to the ground, still fucking me, dragging the orgasm out until I think it won’t ever end.
“Perfect,” he sighs, riding me harder. He squeezes my waist, holding me down. “You’re so fucking perfect, Abi.”
Then his hips shudder and still, and I whimper as I feel a surge of hot seed inside me.
He slumps down on top of me and kisses his way until he finds my mouth.
It’s awkward, twisting around like this, but I like it, too.
I like his weight on top of me, pressing me into the ground. It makes me feel safe.
“Thank you,” I whisper into his kiss.
Rowan rolls me over, then presses himself on top of my body, still pinning me down. His eyes search mine. They always seem bright in the dark. Predator’s eyes.
“You don’t ever have to thank me for that,” he says.
Then he kisses me, his hand tangling up in my hair. I wrap my legs around his hips, holding him against me.
The wind blows through the cemetery. The night drapes over us like a blanket. And this is the only place I ever want to be.
The End
Thank you for reading Half the Summer’s Night! I hope you enjoyed it.