Page 92 of Save Me
“You may want to go save her, then.”
“She doesn’t need saving.” I peel off in my cart to follow him.
22.Sloane
“Is that him?” Frank squints at the golf cart that races across the green toward us.
“Uh-huh.” A second cart follows, Ronan behind the wheel. A third isn’t too far behind, but the driver in it has stopped and has what appears to be a small camera aimed this way. A reporter, surely. According to Ronan, the green would be crawling with them today for this media open tournament thing.
Anxiety swirls in the pit of my stomach.
“I thought you weren’t supposed to drive on the grass,” Frank muses.
“He owns the grass. And I guess he’s not too worried about it right now.”
When Ronan laid out the plan, I balked. I mean, it sounds like a solid accusation. Is it true? Is there any proof to back these claims up? Or have I earned myself defamation suits from two powerful local politicians and Satan, himself?
But Ronan said to trust him. He was adamant this was the right play, and it would land hard and true.
Maybetootrue based on the stony expression on Henry’s face.
He hops out of his cart and strides toward us, his white golf tee pressed and clinging in all the right places. It’s 9:30 a.m. and eighty degrees, and I don’t see a single sweat stain.
“Howdy neighbor!” I call out through a sip of coffee.
“Too much,” Frank warns from his position next to me, arms folded, looking every bit a bodyguard.
“I disagree.”
“The stain is a nice touch, though.”
“What?” I peer down at my white tank top and note the red splotch over my left boob. “Shit!” Raspberry jam from my toast. That wasn’t intentional. Oh well, too late now.
My body is tense as I mentally prepare myself for this confrontation.
“Sloane Parker,” Henry says smoothly, stopping short of the chain-link fence, his gaze drifting over my pajamas, stalling on the remnants from my breakfast.
Ralph chooses that moment to let out one of his infamous rooster caws, earning Henry’s pained cringe.
“Man, that’s a nice shiner,” Frank notes. “Who punched you?”
He recovers his composure in the next beat. “I’m sure you already know. It’s Frank Hale, right?”
Frank stiffens. He wasn’t expecting that from a man he’s never met.
I should have warned him ahead of time. “Your investigator really did his homework, huh?”
“What is this?” Henry points to our ode to Gayle Anderson, hanging high up in the trees. An identical one for Mayor Wilson flutters in the light breeze nearby. As sad as I was to lose that set, I will admit it’s gone to a good cause.
“Well, I could be wrong, but it appears to be a bedsheet.”
His jaw grows taut as he studies me intently. Is it an intimidation tactic? I’m sure it works on others.
I sip my coffee extra slowly, refusing to shy away.
Ronan closes in then, his cart coasting at top speed. It’s barely stopped before his shoes are on the grass. “Morning, Sloane. Frank.” He eyeballs my outfit and mouths “Nice touch.”
I purse my lips to hide my smile.
