Page 3 of The Guilty Trial

“This may hurt a little bit,” the man said.

Chapter Two

The Narrows Golf Course

Tacoma, Washington

Allie Bishop stood on the edge of the fairway, squinting into a tangle of blackberry bushes where her ball had disappeared thirty seconds earlier. The thorns snagged at her sleeves as she pushed the branches aside, searching for the telltale glint of white. This was the third time in as many holes that she’d ventured off the manicured grass into the wilderness flanking the course.

“Any luck?” Hannah called from the cart. Her voice was tinged with sympathy.

“Define luck,” Allie muttered, spotting the ball wedged beneath a fallen branch. She reached in to pull it free, and grimaced as a thorn caught her thumb. A bead of blood welled up, and she wiped it on her jeans before deciding to leave the ball where it was. The blackberry bush could keep it. A sacrifice to the golf gods, or whatever force was conspiring against her today.

She trudged back to the cart, grabbed another ball from her bag, then walked to the nearest clear patch of grass and dropped it, taking the penalty stroke. At this point, it hardly mattered. She lined up her shot from the drop and swung, duffing it. The ball dribbled forward about fifteen yards, still well short of the fairway.

The annual Tacoma Golf Classic had seemed like a harmless commitment when she signed up three weeks ago. A charity event to raise funds for foster care programs in Pierce County. A good cause. Four hours on a Saturday morning. How hard could it be?

Very hard, as it turned out.

Allie had played golf exactly once before, during a high school gym class that left her with a bruised shin and a firm conviction that she was not meant for the sport. Time had done nothing to improve her skills. If anything, the intervening years had made her worse, because now she was old enough to feel self-conscious about it. While her friends moved down the fairway with easy competence, Allie had spent the last two hours chasing errant balls into tall grass, around trees, and once into a shallow creek bed.

Even though her ball had only gone a short distance, Allie didn’t want to keep them all waiting while she walked, so she climbed back into the cart beside Hannah, who gave her an encouraging smile. Her friend had been playing competently all morning, as had Jason and Eastman, who rode in the cart ahead.

“You’re being too hard on yourself,” Hannah said, steering them back toward the fairway. “Golf takes practice.”

“So does brain surgery,” Allie said. “But I’m not trying that.”

Hannah laughed. They parked near the ball, and Allie selected what she hoped was the appropriate club from the bag. The other cart had already pulled up near the green, where both Jason and Eastman had landed their shots with enviable accuracy. Jason was studying his ball with a frown, clearly unhappy with how it had rolled past the hole.

Allie tried to remember the advice Eastman had offered on the first hole. Something about grip and stance and follow-through. She swung, felt the satisfying contact of club against ball, and watched it sail into the air before landing in a sand trap beside the green.

“Better,” Hannah said diplomatically.

“Marginally,” Allie replied, but she was smiling.

They made their way through the next few holes with varying degrees of success. Jason birdied the tenth, and Eastman matched him on the eleventh, the two of them trading good-natured jabs about whose putting game was superior. Hannah played steady, consistent golf that kept her score respectable. And Allie continued her search-and-rescue mission in the rough, collecting grass stains and small cuts from thorny vegetation.

By the time they reached the twelfth tee box, the sun had climbed higher, burning off the morning haze. The twelfth was a par four with a reputation: a narrow fairway flanked by mature pines on the left and a water hazard on the right that had claimed countless balls over the years. A small wooden bridge arched over the pond, and Allie could see white dimples dotting the shallow bottom near the shore.

Eastman pulled out his rangefinder and aimed it at the green. “Two hundred fifteen yards to the pin,” he announced. He turned to Jason, who was selecting a club from his bag. “You’re going to want to fade it right. That cluster of pines will block anything straight down the middle.”

Jason nodded, though his posture suggested he was only half-listening. He was studying the fairway ahead and clearly focused on his next shot.

“I’m telling you,” Eastman continued, warming to his subject. “If you open your stance just a fraction and let the club do the work, you’ll get that natural curve. Keeps you out of the water and sets you up for an easy approach.”

“Thanks, but I’ve got this,” Jason said dryly.

Hannah leaned over to Allie. “Any predictions on where yours will go?”

“Somewhere inconvenient,” Allie said. “That seems to be the theme.”

Eastman teed off first. His ball launched high and straight before curving gently right, landing in perfect position. He gave a satisfied nod and stepped back, making way for Jason. Jason’s shot followed a similar arc, though it rolled a bit farther than he seemed to want, coming to rest right on the edge of the fairway.

Hannah went next. The ball cleared the water easily and settled in the left rough, playable but not ideal.

Then it was Allie’s turn.

She set her ball on the tee, acutely aware of three sets of eyes watching her. The water gleamed in the sunlight, a shimmering reminder of what awaited poor aim. She took a breath, adjusted her grip, and reminded herself that this was just a game. That it didn’t matter if she embarrassed herself. That her self-worth wasn’t tied to how well she could hit a small white ball with a metal stick.