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The Blue Rock Springs Golf Course isn't that remarkable a place. Paul's sitting in the passenger seat of a car parked about four miles from Lake Herman Road, arm slung around the back of the driver's seat. In the driver's seat sits a petite young woman, her blonde hair cut short, hands in her lap rather than on the steering wheel.

"Darlene, right?" he asks, tapping the fingers of his other hand on the dashboard. (He doesn't actually have to ask. He knows this place and all the circumstances like the back of his hand.)

"Yeah," she says, and her voice is more a coo than anything else.

What is he supposed to say to her?




"You look nice."

(It's the only thing he can think of.)




He can hear the car coming before he sees it. It parks right behind them (he doesn't bother telling her to go, doesn't bother telling her to just drive and get away).

A man gets out, and Paul can hear his heart pounding.


(I want to see his face.)

He can see the Luger hanging at the man's side as he approaches.



When the man finally arrives at his window, he shines the flashlight directly in Paul's face.

(Godfuckingdammit.

I can't see worth shit.)



"I -- hey."

Three shots each.



She's dead.

Is it his blood?

It hurts.


It fucking hurts and there's blood everywhere and he couldn't even get a look at the sonofabitch's face.

He groans, teeth grinding as he places a hand on his chest, blood spreading through the fabric of his clothing.





Two more shots each and he blacks out.

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