“What about you?” I ask. “Didn’t you have the same hope?”
He stops and looks at me. Hesitates. Then his shoulders slump. “Of course I did.”
I stare at him as he stares back. I don’t break eye contact, no matter how awkward it feels. I want him to break first. To stutter or say something he might regret later. Something,anything, that might prove he was a part of this. Or that he at least knows for a fact I’m not Nate. Because he knows Nate is dead.
And he does look away first. He puts the gun down, gently, on the tabletop.
“Nate,” he says, still avoiding my eyes. “I did hope. But my experience in life is different. I see how this stuff goes all the time, and usually after a certain point, things get hopeless.”
“But not for our family,” I say, pushing him.
He finally looks up at me, surprised. Then he smiles. He puts his elbow on the table and rests his chin on his palm, shaking his head at me.
“Yeah, bud,” he says. “I guess for us it was different.” He sighs, and if I weren’t suspicious about his involvement in his own son’s death—if there weren’t a gun on the table between us like a threat—this could be a nice father-son bonding moment. Or maybe it’s another side effect of Valencia making me feel so loved. I might be looking for a way to excuse my suspicions about Marcus.
“Listen.” Marcus leans back, crossing his arms. “I’m sorry I got so mad about the car.” The car we drove here that looks exactly how it did before someone framed me for spilling paint on it. “It’s just stuff. I’m happy you’re back, kiddo. And I’m sorry I let my temper get the best of me.”
Maybe he senses that I’m about to ask him if that means he believes me, because he returns his attention to the weapon.
“Okay. This is called the slide.” He picks up the gun and pulls the top back and turns the chamber in my direction so I can see there isn’t a bullet in there waiting for me. “First rule, always assume the gun is loaded. You pull the slide to check.”
He picks up the empty clip from the table and puts it in the handle.
“Then you check the clip.” He clicks something on the side and the clip slides out. Then he puts it all back together and places it on the table. “Now you try it.”
I pick up the gun and again it feels heavy in my hand. I try to pull the top back, but Marcus puts his hand on top of mine.
“Not there, you’ll pinch your fingers.” He moves my hand and adjusts my grip. I pull back the slide and look again in the empty chamber. Part of me half expected a bullet to be in there. Like this was all a trick and he was setting me up.
I press the little button on the side of the handle and the clip slides out, clattering to the table. Marcus grabs it but tells me good, then holds out his hand. I give the gun back.
“Second rule is the safety. So remember, to start, always assume the gun is loaded.” He tilts it over and points to a lever on the side of the weapon. “This is the safety.”
He flicks it and a red dot appears under it.
“Red means dead. It means the safety is off. So you should always assume the safety is off. But if you see the red dot, you know forsureit’s off. Repeat what I just said.”
“Red means dead.”
He nods. “Red means dead.” Then he locks the safety into place again. He stands. “Come on, I’ll have the range teach you how tostand and shoot. They’ll do it better than I would.”
I follow him out the door to the range, putting on my ear protection. But despite what Marcus said to me before showing me the gun, I can’t shake the thought that this whole exercise is a threat.
A warning that if I step out of line...
Red means dead.
I half listen to the bearded guy talking about gun range etiquette—“Don’t point the gun at anyone” being such an obvious rule that I really don’t think you should have to say it, but here we are.
Then he takes me to a little cubby next to Easton, who is shooting slowly and methodically. Gun Range Guy shows me how to load the gun, how to clip my target on the reel, and how to send it back. He moves it close for me—about twenty feet away—and in the next lane over, I see Easton’s is all the way at the back of the range in front of a massive mound of sand meant to catch the bullets.
The guy shouts loud enough that I can hear him through my ear protection and over the muffled sounds of gunshots.
It’s overwhelming, so I nod, and when he tells me to give it a shot—pun intended?—I hold up the gun. His hands wrap around mine and he manipulates my fingers into the correct position, telling me if I pulled the trigger like that, the top of the gun might pinch the skin between my thumb and forefinger. I shiver and he tells me to go ahead.
I pull the trigger, but nothing happens. The man reaches out and tells me good job for keeping the safety on. I try again.
The gun jumps in my hand in a way I’m not prepared for, and for a second I’m worried I’ll drop it. It’s so powerful it makes my heart race and my hands tingle. I put it down and shake my head.
