Rowan says we don’t know what’s inside us until we’re tested. He said this after Mitch’s affair four years ago. I’d gone to him for advice and comfort while we were fighting to save our marriage, and to confess what I’d done to gather enough evidence to believe it was happening. He hadn’t judged me for that, and he didn’t persuade me one way or another. He said I would know what to do. That it would come from inside. This is a different test now. I am about to find out what else has been hiding in my heart and in my mind. Perhaps even in my soul.
“Elise!”
My vision is sharp and focused as I walk out of the aisle and down the hall toward the cries. I disregard the vacuum cleaners and toilet paper, the floor tiles and the faces of people—so many people frozen in place, crouched into little balls, trying to disappear—as I move through the vast space. I am again surrounded by human suffering, by people who will never be the same, even if they come out alive. But I can’t think about this now.
Hearing honed, drowning out the elevator music, the heating vents blowing overhead, the whimpering, and yes, even the screaming. Listening only for the shots so they can guide me to the source. In the moments between them, I hear the beats of my heart and the whirring of my breath as my body settles in for the fight.
Rowan is in my ear.“Don’t move! I’m coming! Help is coming!”
“Stay in the car,” I whisper back.
He doesn’t listen. I hear muffled sounds—his car door slamming shut, then the world outside, the vastness of the air reaching up to the sky, broken by human chaos and distant sirens and his feet racing across the concrete sidewalk. “Clear the area!” he yells to those who have made it out.
“I’m going to find the shooter,” I tell him.
“Elise, no!”
At the end of home goods, the aisles open up to a large circular area with racks of clothing. A sign hangs from the ceiling on long silver chains: Men’s Department. I take in the scene, then retreat to find cover in the last aisle. I close my eyes and bring the picture into sharper focus.
There was a man turned away from me, facing the entrance to a rectangular structure—the dressing room. Jeans. A gray hoodie. White sneakers. Long, stringy hair. A gun in his hands, aimed.
Someone else was moving, running toward that same structure. A woman in a dress. I think that her shape was round or maybe the dress was loose. I did not see her face.
And a second man, standing still. Exposed. Tall and thin, in khakis and abutton-downshirt. His hands were in the air, as if surrendering or pleading for his life.
A new wave of fear unleashes. I feel the chemicals surge in my blood, and I draw a deep breath to make them settle. This is the part that can’t be simulated in training. This is the part I’m not prepared for. I rely on knowledge, lines from a textbook, words from an instructor. It’s not the same. Not even close.
The instinct returns. I could find my way outside through a back exit or fire door. I could get to safety. There is still time for flight. I’ve never been a fighter. Not like this. Not in combat.
I studied forensics because I was drawn to the order it created. The solving of mysteries and puzzles. I’d taught at the local college—classes on evidence and crime scenes. All of it pulled from past cases or hypothetical situations. Everything known or under my control. The survivors we encounter are not in danger. They suffer from their loss. Grief. Despair. Sorrow. They are not devoid of emotion, and that emotion torments me. But the terror has faded. Terror has a short shelf life.
Yet that is what electrifies the air. What races through every person in this store. That man standing, the next target, is paralyzed from it.
Run!The thought, the urge, is powerful.
And yet my body responds to a different call. To the tall man pleading for his life. To the others in the back of the store who might be next.
My head clears. My fingers close around my gun and release the safety.
“Elise, stop! Help is coming...”
The tall man sees me as I step out of the aisle and move quickly toward the suspect. His face changes with a wash of desperate hope, and the suspect turns his head. He’s so young. Maybe twenty. His expression is calm, but his eyes grow wild when he realizes he’s not the only one who is armed.
I call out. “Police officer! Drop your weapon!”
My hands are raised just below my chest. I peer over the end of the barrel, taking aim. The shaking is gone. My finger teases the trigger.
Then, suddenly, the tall man moves toward the dressing room, passing through the peripheral vision of the suspect, who turns his head back and then his torso. The gun is aimed and moves with him, and I think,This is it... he’s going to fire, he’s going to kill that man...
Suddenly, I know what’s inside me—what has been revealed by these mere minutes, crashing over the order I’ve created, the family I’ve fought for and loved with every cell in my body.
I take aim at the back of his head, and I feel my finger squeeze, and God help me, I pull the trigger and watch him fall.
And my life is forever changed.
Chapter Two
the kill room
