“Did you know Sally Maxwell?”
The man nodded. “Beautiful woman. Damn shame what happened. You know, you sort of look like her.”
“She was a good golfer?”
“Oh, sure. Nice game. Better putter than on the fairways, though.”
“But not in Donna’s league?”
“Not even close.” He smiled. “Why all the questions? You interested in taking on Donna, scoping out the competition? You’re a lot younger than she is, but she’ll still give you a challenge, I bet.”
“I might be taking her on, but it won’t be on a golf course.” Michelle walked off, leaving the man to stare puzzled after her.
She walked out into the parking lot and headed to her SUV.
She whipped her head around because she thought she heard something. She used her thumb to pop off the leather support on her holster. Michelle gripped the butt of her gun and tensed to pull it. But she reached her truck safely and climbed in.
A half hour later she got to the house. She drove past, parked down a side street, and climbed out. Donna Rothwell’s big house was set back from the street. There was a gate out front and a windy drive up to a front motor court. As she walked along the street, she found a gap between the hedges. The house was dark, at least in front. It was large enough to where any lights in the back rooms would not be visible from where she was.
Michelle checked her watch. It was nearly ten o’clock.
Why had Rothwell lied about such a seemingly trivial point? She’d told her and Sean that Sally Maxwell had played with Doug Reagan in a local amateur charity tournament because Rothwell’s handicap was too high and she couldn’t qualify. But apparently she was a far better golfer than Michelle’s mother had been. It was a stupid lie. She could only assume that Rothwell must’ve been counting on the fact that Michelle, not being a local, would never find out it wasn’t true.
But why lie in the first place? So what if her mother had played with Doug?
Michelle stopped. A footfall, some breathing other than her own; the slap of skin against metal. Gun metal. This was stupid. She wasn’t going to break into Donna Rothwell’s place, giving the woman an excellent reason to have her arrested. And she wasn’t going to stay out here waiting for someone to get the drop on her.
She got back to the SUV and called Sean, relaying what she’d learned about Rothwell.
“Bobby and I will meet you at your dad’s place,” he said. “Get there and stay put.”
She reached the house and parked in front. She glanced in the garage window. Her dad wasn’t home. She used her spare key to let herself in.
As soon as she closed the door behind her she sensed it. She pulled her gun, but a second too late. The blow hit her on the arm. The Sig clattered to the floor, discharging as it hit and the round ricocheted off the stone tile. Michelle grabbed her injured arm and rolled as something heavy fell close to her.
Then she felt something smash next to her head. She leapt up and kicked out with her leg, but caught nothing but air. Someone screamed and another blow hit Michelle painfully on the leg. She cursed, ran toward the living room, and threw herself backward over the couch. She at least knew the layout of the house.
When the person came at her again, she was ready. She ducked the blow, came up, and delivered a snap kick to the attacker’s gut, followed by a jab to the head. She heard a loud grunt as though the air had been driven right out of the attacker’s lungs. Someone hit the floor. Michelle leapt forward to take advantage of this when whatever weapon the person had been holding flew up and caught Michelle on the chin. It was metal. She tasted blood. She moved to her left and tripped over the coffee table, falling hard. Her arm and leg killing her and now her chin throbbing, she sat up.
Michelle felt the presence right on top of her, smelled something hot.
Shit, it’s my gun. They’ve got my gun.
She dove behind the coffee table, braced for the shot.
It rang out, but she felt nothing. There was a scream, high-pitched and terrified. Something clattered to the floor and someone fell next to her.
The lights came on.
She sat up, blinking rapidly.
When she saw him, she gasped. Doug Reagan was lying by the door with a gunshot wound in his chest.
And next to her was Donna Rothwell on her knees, holding her bloody hand and sobbing in pain. Michelle’s pistol was next to the woman. Michelle quickly grabbed it.
Then she froze again.
He was standing by the front door, next to where Reagan was, his gun out, a wisp of smoke floating off the muzzle.