Chapter 39
“Shep? He’s outside on the putting green,” Tippy practically snarls. “We have a call with my father this afternoon to settle the matter of Shep’s ten million dollars. Then Shep gets his money. My father gets a gimlet on his balcony over Ortega Bay. And I get left. Shep will be on the next flight out of town. Happy fucking anniversary.”
The afternoon light coming through the windows stings with my eyes pulled this wide. “I don’t think it’s going to go that way, Tippy.” I reach inside my bag and produce the mysterious jar I’ve been harboring for days. “This was at Lemon & Fig. I think it was Gemma’s.”
Tippy’s vision zeros in on the jar and the tees of all colors and sizes—all broken, all exactly like the ones she’s keeping by her wet bar.
“He wouldn’t risk that,” she hisses, looking between me and the jar. “He was too careful. Foryears.That’s not—” The confusion on her face transforms to anger and then rage. “He wouldn’t be that stupid. Hewon.” Her voice breaks on the last word.
“He didn’t,” I say quietly, knowing it’s true.
And I think she realizes it, too, because suddenly, she’s animated. Putting her drink down and cutting across the room. “I have to call my lawyers.”
A blur of movement catches at the edge of my vision. The doors by the living room fly open, and the bowl from the wet bar is airborne before I realize Shep has snatched it off the marbled counter.
The blown glass shatters with a sickening thump as Tippy collapses to the floor. Shep lets the bowl go, glass and tees scattering near her head.
The sound of breaking glass reverberates up to the vaulted ceiling before the room falls silent for a chilling beat.
Shep takes a step forward in white, Ferragamo low-top sneakers.
Fuck.
“Este,” Shep finally says, panting like he’s just run a mile.
“Hey, Shep,” I say, and his name comes out as almost a whisper.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
He’s right. I should run. But I can’t leave Tippy.
“What did you just do?” I bleat, rushing toward Tippy.
“She’ll be fine,” Shep insists, and there’s an eerie calm to his posture as he puts up a hand to stop me. He bends down and touches two fingers to the pulse point near her neck. “See? Still breathing.”
He motions to the rise and fall of her chest as if signs of life make the fact that Tippy’s incapacitated on the floor all better. I stare at her wilted frame and splayed limbs for another second, trying to decide what I’m going to do next.
Shep moves first, lurching forward and grabbing for me with wide arms, only to meet empty air as I give chase. Spinning on a heel, I race toward the front door, but his footfalls are coming too fast. I sidestep toward the kitchen, aiming for the garage door, but my eyes go to a golf club—amidst some abandoned collection of equipment in an umbrella holder. With Shep close behind, I reach the club and swing around, landing a blow directly to the center of his chest.
He doubles over, stumbling back a few steps, and I swing the club in front of myself like an épée.
“Back up,” I shout, watching the menace in his face morph into something new.
Anytime Shep tries to escape, I threaten him with the club I’m wielding.
The irony isn’t lost on me that everything I’ve ever learnedabout golf has been against my will. But I can at least appreciate a makeshift weapon when I’ve found one.
“I just want to talk,” I say.
Struggling to regain his breath, he asks, “Why don’t we skip to: How did you figure it out?”
“Gemma was keeping a jar of broken tees. Like the ones Tippy had on your bar.”
The police should be here soon—small town, quiet force, and a murder investigation under way all but guarantee it—and I need to know what he knows about Gemma. I need to get Beau out of jail.
“I have to know what happened to Gemma,” I say, knowing it’s a risk. Knowing I might be provoking a killer. But I’m feeling braver with a golf club gripped in my fist. And I’m hoping maybe I can tap into some Simon Avery negotiation tactic.
Simon used to say all people really want is to be seen.
