They always did.
EPILOGUE
One Month Later
The property wasforty minutes east of Tampa, down a county road that lost its center line after the last gas station and didn't bother to apologize. Live oaks pressed in from both sides, Spanish moss hanging low enough to brush the roof of the Range Rover, and the light came through the canopy in broken patterns that moved across Emily's legs like warm fingers.
"You're not going to tell me where we're going," she said.
"I told you. My range."
"You said you had property outside town where you built your own range. You didn't say it was in another zip code."
Jake's mouth curved. He was in jeans and a t-shirt, the backwards cap, Oakleys hanging from the collar. Saturday morning Jake. Her favorite version, though she was starting to realize every version was her favorite version.
"Patience."
"I'm a prosecutor. Patience is not a virtue I cultivate."
"I know. That's part of why we're here."
He turned off the county road onto a gravel track that wound through a stand of pines and opened into a clearing. Emily sat up straighter. The range wasn't what she'd expected. Not a commercial setup with lanes and partitions and fluorescent lighting. This was built by hand, by a man who understood the fundamentals and cared about getting them right. A covered firing line with a concrete pad. Steel targets at various distances downrange, the closest maybe fifteen yards, the farthest out past where she could estimate. A wooden bench with ammunition organized in neat rows. Everything maintained, everything purposeful, everything Jake.
He parked and killed the engine.
"You built all of this," Emily said.
"Needed a project when I got out. The house was one. This was the other."
She climbed out. The morning air was already warm and heavy with pine and wet earth, the smell of Florida before the heat turned everything to static. Jake went to the back of the Range Rover and opened a hard case she hadn't noticed. Inside, nestled in foam, was a Glock 19 with a red dot optic mounted on the slide. His carry gun. She'd seen it on the nightstand, in the safe, riding concealed at his appendix when they went out. She'd never touched it.
"That's yours," she said.
"It is."
"I assumed you'd have one smaller for me. A beginner gun."
Jake laughed, closed the case and looked at her with an expression she recognized. The patient, certain look he gave her when he was about to teach her something she didn't know she needed to learn.
"You don't have to learn to shoot on a small gun, Em. Small guns are harder to shoot. Less to hold onto, more felt recoil, shorter sight radius." He set the case on the bench. "You learn onthe gun that teaches you the fundamentals. Then everything else is easier."
"Is there a metaphor happening here?"
"Always."
He opened the case again and cleared the weapon, checking the chamber with the same automatic precision she'd watched him use on everything. Movements that lived in his hands, not his head. Then he set it on the bench, slide locked back, muzzle pointed downrange.
"First rule," he said. "We don't touch it until you understand what we're building."
Emily crossed her arms. The morning sun was behind him, catching the edge of his cap, and she had the sudden, visceral memory of the first time she'd seen him in Ray's office, this same posture, this same authority, this same feeling in her stomach that she was about to be undone by a man who hadn't even started trying.
"I'm listening," she said.
"Shooting is five fundamentals. Five things, in order, every time. You get them right and the gun does exactly what you tell it to. You skip one and it doesn't matter how good the others are." He held up one hand, fingers spread. "Platform. Grip. Sights. Trigger. Follow through."
"That sounds like a closing argument."
"It sounds like everything." He stepped closer. Not touching her. Standing at the edge of her space, close enough that she could feel the heat of him in the morning air. "Ready?"
