"A few more days. Then it's over."
She pulls away. Doesn't go back to her notebook. Stands in the middle of the room, arms crossed, jaw set.
"The guns," she says. "Teach me how to use them."
I blink. "What?"
"I asked Carver half a dozen times before the interview even happened. Wanted to learn for book research." Her voice is flat. Hard. "He blew me off every time. And I'm done asking."
"Eden—"
"I froze just now. When I heard them." She meets my eyes, and there's no fear there anymore. Just decision. "I didn't know what else to do. I'm sick of not knowing what else to do."
"You've seen me with a couple pistols. That doesn't mean—"
"I know you have more. And I know you know how to use them."
She's not wrong.
"It's not like the internet," I say. "Whatever you think you learned from research is only enough to get you hurt."
"Then teach me right."
"And we can't exactly practice out here without drawing attention."
"Hunters have been shooting all week. One more gun won't stand out." She crosses her arms. "Unless you have a better idea."
I do. Suppressor in the closet. But I'm not telling her that yet.
She's not going to let this go. I can see it in her eyes.
"After dinner," I say.
"Promise."
I grunt.
"No. With words." She doesn't blink. "Promise me."
"I promise."
She nods once and goes back to her notebook.
***
The light's almost gone when I set up in the shed. Targets made from scrap cardboard, propped against hay bales Murphy left behind. The Glock 19 stripped, cleaned, reassembled. Suppressor threaded on.
She appears in the doorway. Changed into jeans and one of my flannels, sleeves rolled to her elbows. Ready.
"First rule," I say. "Every gun is loaded—"
"Even when it's not. Never point it at anything you're not willing to destroy. Finger off the trigger until you're ready to fire." She meets my eyes. "I'm a thriller writer, Diesel. I've held guns. Done a range session. Asked a lot of questions." A beat. "What I haven't had is someone who actually knows what they're doing correcting my form."
Fair enough.
I hold out the Glock, grip toward her.
She takes it. Checks the chamber without being told. Good. But I see the way she swallows when she feels the weight. Different when it's not a rental at a range. Different when it matters.
