“She always used to run off in the middle of the night. Sometimes during the day too. Closer to when she passed, she spent a lot of time in the shed and I never really knew what she was doing in there, but I also never questioned it.” He sighed, squeezing my hand. “I want to be a better husband with you, Samira. I made a lot of mistakes with Melanie that I don’t want to make again, and a lot of it stemmed from a lack of communication. I want us to be clear with each other at all times.”
It was funny he’d brought up the topic of communication because I instantly wanted to ask him what the journals were about. A part of me wanted to show him what I’d read, ask him if he knew about Melanie and Dylan, and if he did, why he’d allowed Dylan to stick around, but as I looked into his hazel eyes, it registered to me that he couldn’t have known. There was no way he would have still had the journals, the shed, or even Dylan around if he knew the truth.
I came to the conclusion that Roland had no clue what was written in Melanie’s journals. He’d never set foot in the shed since she’d passed, I was sure, because if he’d spent at least five minutes in there alone, he would have discovered the journals, the same way I had.
I squeezed his hand back and sighed. I was weak for him. I still trusted him, and a part of me still believed he couldn’t have had anything to do with Melanie’s passing—that it was all a big coincidence and I was overthinking a lot of it.
“How do you feel about golfing with me?” he asked.
“What?” I laughed.
“I bought you some clubs as a surprise.” He grinned, and I couldn’t help smiling right back at him.
“I have never golfed in my life, Roland.”
“That’s why I’m here. I can teach you.”
I huffed a laugh and watched as he brought the back of my fingers up to his lips. He folded them over his hand and kissed my knuckles and I melted. How was it possible to love him so much, yet also feel like some of my trust in him was dwindling? Was he innocent? Was he not? Was he hiding something and not telling me? I needed to know . . . but for now, I needed him to give me the mental space to figure it out, and if golfing with him would do the trick, then so be it.
“Okay, fine.” I turned to grab my breakfast tray. “You can teach me, but don’t be surprised if I end up breaking one of the clubs.”
* * *
We’d spent an hour on the course. Spring was looming, but the air was still cold. The skies were gray and the snow had mostly melted, some white piles still lingering in shadowy places the sun couldn’t reach.
Beyond the many acres of green turf and flapping flags were towering pine trees that ran for miles. There was nothing out here—no one to see, and no one who could see us. We may as well have been in the middle of nowhere.
As Roland took a swing at his golf ball, I stared ahead at the trees, feeling a breeze pass by me. I pictured a woman running toward the pines, her dark hair flapping in the wind, and a white scarf around her neck. She turned to look back, and her skin was chalky, blood dripping from the top of her head, running over her forehead and nose, and eventually spilling over her full lips.
I gasped and blinked.
“You okay?” Roland asked, getting into a perfect stance with the handle of his club in hand.
“Yeah.” I tried blinking the image away and lowered my head, closing my eyes briefly before opening them again, but when I looked up, I still saw her, only she was running between a line of trees now, fading into the darkness. Then she was gone.
Melanie.
Roland took a swing and the club collided with the ball, causing a loud crack. I startled and whipped my head over to watch the ball soar before landing with a soft bounce and steady roll into a sand bunker.
“You’re up,” he said, smiling.
“Right.” I nodded and he handed me one of my clubs, then placed a ball on a tee.
“What was the book you were reading last night anyway?” Roland asked, placing his hands on my hips to fix my posture. I had my arms out, clutching the handle of the golf club.
“Oh, it was just some romance book. I finished it and wanted to get the sequel from the shed. There are a lot of books in there.”
“She read often,” he noted, stepping away. “When do you think you’ll get her stuff cleared out so you can make use of it for yourself?”