Chapter 20
When Simon fired me from Redwood—without so much as a warning shot—it left a mark I couldn’t shake. Not a bruise. Not a paper cut. Something deeper.
Losing my parents had taught me that control and permanence were illusions. Losing my job taught me that even the casual cruelties of the world can leave scars.
Simon split me in two with a note card. There was the life I had before I lost my dream job, and the one that started after.
That we were sleeping together when Simon terminated me made it personal in all the obvious ways. Not because I loved Simon. I didn’t. But I had trusted him. I never expected him to betray me so brutally.
The version of me that emerged after Simon was someone who met everyone with healthy skepticism. I was still me, but the softest parts of me stayed under lock and key. I chose my friends more carefully—often individually selecting underdogs who knew the sting of vulnerability the way I did.
The ones who proved themselves? I kept them like blood oaths.
So when Nora agreed to dive headfirst into the Gemma investigation with me, I didn’t hesitate. Loyalty recognizes its own.
Too bad loyalty isn’t the same thing as a strategy.
Because as we walk into the Interlachen pro-am charity tournament, I realize we have zero plan for how we’re going to smoke out Gemma’s killer.
Through the window, I can see players and an event tent dotting the golf course. And in the member lounge, a rainbow of golf polos packs the room. Voices rise beneath the glow of the TVs mounted behind the bar. The turnout is larger than I expected.
“Ladies!” Someone near the window waves like we’re old friends.
“So good to see you here,” another trills, squeezing Nora’s arm as she passes.
“I’ve been meaning to call you about doubles,” someone else adds, leaning too far over their cocktail glass.
This is what it’s like now anytime we walk into the club.
The crowd parts, but it’s not really out of deference.
They want proximity. They want to be seen with us.
Heads tilt toward us, laughter roars a little too loud, and I can feel the buzz ripple through the room like champagne foam.
Everyone’s sugar-sweet, syrupy with compliments, but it’s the kind of sweet that leaves an unpleasant film in your mouth.
Fake.
I mumble to Nora, “If I shotgun a White Claw right now, you think that would be enough to make us misfits again?”
“Hey, Mrs. Walker. Mrs. Somerset.” Darl, one of the club’s longest-serving bartenders, waves from behind the bar, reaching a hand above the crowd to flag us as we approach. With his free hand, he reaches for a pair of champagne flutes, already knowing.
“Hey, Darl.” I smile, happy to be speaking to someone genuine. But I shake my head at the glasses before he can fill them. “No champagne for us today, I’m afraid.”
And that’s when I get my first view of a weatherman waving his hands over a map on the TV, describing a tropical storm beginning to spin toward the Florida coast.
“While it will still be days before this system makes landfall, we’re keeping an eye on the storm’s path as it enters these warmer waters,” the weatherman says, circling a red-and-orange bloom of storm activity on a giant map.
What fresh hell is this? I already feel like I’m living in a natural disaster.
“That’s the last thing we need,” I say with a sigh. The man in the blue sports coat is still at it, tracing the fiery cluster of radar echoes with a hand and describing a system gathering momentum in the Atlantic.
I’m so fixated on the screen I almost miss Detective Ardell walking through the bar in golf attire. I’m so used to seeing him stuffed into suits and starchy button-downs, the golf getup almost feels like cosplay.
“What’s he doing here?” I whisper to Darl as Ardell turns toward the doors that lead outside.
“He’s been here all day,” Darl answers, looking in Ardell’s direction. “He’s Mr. McGinnis’s guest for the tournament today.”
I freeze.
Ford is buddying up with Ardell? Why?
I scan for Ardell again, but instead I spot Polly, cornered by Carol Parker.
Like she had been in Ford’s garage, Carol is dressed in an all-white tennis set with a baby blue sweater draped over her shoulders. She looks like a Good Housekeeping action figure—posable and polite. Pull the string on her back and her arm karate-chops fresh flowers.
Carol’s eyes catch mine for half a second—cool and knowing—before her voice lifts into something warm enough to melt butter.
“Este! Nora!” she trills, like we’re all old friends. Even with the dirt she now has on me, Carol knows when it’s time to play nice.
“What a delight to see you here. I was just telling Polly that Art can’t wait to meet her. He’s an enormous admirer of Ford’s.”
Polly waves in my direction, eyes pleading with me to save her from the most boring grown-up conversation ever.
“Hey, Polly, I thought you had tennis,” I say, tossing her a lifeline.
“Not today.” She grimaces. “Dad signed me up to volunteer with the junior caddies at the tournament instead.”
Carol chuckles in that careful, perfect-hostess way of hers.
“It’s wonderful to see young people so involved.
Ford must be so proud.” She turns her attention to me.
“Este knows how important it is to pitch in around here, don’t you?
” Her gaze lingers a beat too long. She’s not talking about community service.
Nora clears her throat, and I know we both feel it. Carol’s a breath away from mentioning the tees and the garage snooping.
But then someone calls to Nora and me from across the lounge, giving an enthusiastic wave, and the way Carol’s smile widens makes my jaws clench.
“We’re going to have a little trophy ceremony later today,” she says brightly, clapping her hands together once for emphasis.
“You could help me pass out the trophies. Like my little assistant.”
Nora sniffs a laugh as the word “assistant” lands with the force of a slap, but I keep my smile fixed. I can’t afford to dissent.
“That sounds…fun,” I manage.
Carol’s eyes glimmer with satisfaction. Being in her pocket is humiliating, but it’s better than being outed for skulking around Ford’s garage like a cat burglar. If Ford knew I’d been pawing through his sports equipment, Polly would never be allowed near my house again.
And she needs the quesadillas.
So I nod, accepting Carol’s Lilly Pulitzer–patterned leash.
“Wonderful.” She presses her palms together like she’s delivering some kind of blessing. “I’ll come find you in a little while.”
She scurries off, leaving Nora and Polly staring at me in disbelief.
“What the hell was that?” Nora shakes her head. “Is Carol your boss now?”
“What? No.”
“But she got to tell you what to do,” Polly chimes in, probably thinking my servitude has something to do with penance for our prank.
She’s half-right.
Nora taps her chin as if trying to remember something. “I mean, she’s giving you assignments. It’s almost like you’re her…what’s the word I’m thinking of? Starts with a ‘b.’ ”
I cross my arms. “I’ll give you a word that starts with ‘b.’ ”
Polly snickers and suggests we go watch the last few teams finish the tournament.
“Isn’t Beau playing?” she asks.
My husband loves team sports and golf and his weed pen. This is his dream afternoon. Never mind the odd housewife whispering about him and Gemma leaving Marcus’s restaurant as he walks by.
He’s the guy who buys the rounds, tips the waitresses without leering, and remembers everyone’s name with a smile. His untouchable charm is out there somewhere on full display.
“Sporty” is not a word anyone would use to describe me.
When I was a kid, the most athletic outings my parents engaged in were Renaissance Faires, where someone would heave a ten-foot log across a college field.
In New Orleans, Delia counted the annual krewe season with its endless balls and parties as her cardio.
Now, strolling around the golf course with Polly, I don’t bother to pretend I know what’s going on as people hush and cheer in sporadic intervals.
But I’m doing my best to nod along as I scan the golfing equipment of different players, looking for anything that explains the jar of broken tees Gemma had her hair ties spooled around.
I spot Beau across the green, laughing with Ford, Shep, and Marcus on the first tee like he was born holding a nine iron.
“Marcus came?” I look at Nora, who shrugs.
Someone is handing them their scorecards, and I wait for Beau to see me, like he always does. To catch me taking him in from afar. Longing simmers in my chest. For him. For who we were before Gemma died. For a time when I felt like there weren’t secrets and silence lodged between us.
But he doesn’t look my way.
It’s benign. Or at least that’s how it should feel.
I didn’t tell him I was coming. He has no reason to be looking for me.
But up until now, we had a knack for finding each other’s gazes in crowds. He’d wink. I’d blow him a kiss or flip him off, depending on how cheeky I was feeling. And then we’d go back to whatever we were doing, knowing that tether between us was always there.
“You okay?” Nora nudges me.
“No.” The laugh that escapes my lips is sharp. “Why would I be okay?”
I watch as Beau’s group tees off and disappears down the fairway.
Somewhere between the polite applause, the surface-level chatter about weather delays, and which club anyone is using, I lose four hours of my life.
And by the time the last foursome finishes their round, the crowd is migrating to the awards table.
Which means Carol will be looking for her less-than-trusty assistant.
I take a step in that direction as the first drop of rain hits my cheek.
It starts out as a harmless drizzle, sprinkling hairlines and darkening pastel polos.
But then, the lavender-gray clouds that have been sulking on the horizon all afternoon finally split open, and it’s a proper torrent, sending golfers and caddies scrambling for cover as they dash for their carts.