Chapter 7: The Watch

Thirty members stared at me.

I had been called a thief once before, in tenth grade, over a lunch money envelope.

I had cried in a stairwell for an hour.

I was twenty-four now, and my face was burning, and I was not going to cry on this veranda.

"Check the cart's camera," I said.

Stanford blinked.

"The what?"

"There's a camera on my dash. Birdie pointed out the lens on my second day."

I didn't know if it recorded.

I was guessing very hard.

Behind the crowd, Birdie Fenn stepped out of the caddie shed with a tablet in one hand.

She wore a look on her face that I will remember for the rest of my life.

"He did," Birdie said. "Last March. It records to this."

She held up the tablet.

"Give me that," Stanford said.

"No, sir." Birdie didn't move. "Not until Mr. Branwell says."

Everyone turned.

Ramsay walked up through the crowd.

The members parted for him like a tide.

He stopped beside me, not in front of me, not behind me, but shoulder to shoulder on the veranda steps.

"Play it," he said.

Birdie tapped the screen and held it up.

The camera showed the cart's dash and the front seat and the cooler, in grainy color, with a clock in the corner.

6:52 a.m.

Me, smiling and wiping the seats.

Then my cart rolled down to the 5th tee and I climbed out and walked ahead to the green with a bottle of water.

At 6:54, a figure in white tennis clothes stepped out from behind the 4th tee's hedge.

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