I let that sit. The old pain in his voice was a familiar tune—different words, same song. “You think scaring the shit out of everyone is gonna fill the hole?”
He sneered. “What would you know about holes, McKenzie?”
I smiled. “More than you think.”
We were close now—ten feet, maybe less. I saw the hand that held the gun was shaking, and not just a little. He was right on the edge, and I didn’t know which way he’d tip.
“I think about that night sometimes,” I said. “The night Mary called me, crying. I told her she should leave. Told her you’d get better, but maybe it was a lie.”
That got to him. His eyes filled up, and his jaw worked like he wanted to bite through something. “She—she said you listened. That you were the only one who ever listened.”
“I didn’t listen hard enough.” I took another step. I was close enough to see the fingerprint smudges on the barrel. “You want to talk? Let’s talk. But you gotta put that thing down first.”
He stared at the gun. I could see the war inside him—part of him wanted to hand it over, part wanted to make a statement. In the end, he just let his arm drop, the gun hanging from his fingers.
I closed the last few feet and took it, slow, careful. His hands were ice cold, but he didn’t fight me. “You don’t have to do this, man,” I said, lowering my voice. “You don’t have to be a cliché.”
Gator let out a sound that was halfway between a sob and a laugh. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, then slumped to the floor, knees splayed, head bowed.
Floyd moved in fast, but not aggressive—just a hand on Gator’s shoulder, guiding him up, walking him out. The bartender popped up, eyes round and wet, and I gave her a nod: “All clear.”
The world rushed back in, loud and bright. Outside, the squad cars made a neat perimeter of flashing lights, and every rubbernecker in a three-block radius was crowding behind the yellow tape. Floyd kept a steady hold on Gator, murmuring to him the whole time. I held the gun in both hands, the weight of it heavier than it should have been.
I waited until the paramedics took Gator, then met Floyd’s eyes. He just nodded, like we’d done what we had to do.
“Nice work,” he said.
“Don’t thank me,” I said. “He’s still a mess.”
Floyd shrugged. “Sometimes ‘not dead’ is enough.”
He held out his hand for the gun, and I passed it over, our fingers brushing for a moment longer than necessary. We stood there in the siren-soaked dusk, just breathing, neither of us in a hurry to let go of the moment.
Then the world started moving again, and I had to.
Sunlight hit me like a slap, a rude wake-up after the cave-dark of the bar. Out here, everything looked too sharp—the squad cars, the yellow tape, the way the deputies milled like extras who’d missed their cue. I blinked against the glare and tried to shake off the way my hands were still buzzing.
Gator sat on the back bumper of an ambulance, a foil blanket draped around his shoulders like he was waiting for someone to tell him he’d done good. His head hung low, but his eyes tracked me when I came near.
“Sorry,” he said. The word came out in a gravelly croak. “Didn’t mean to scare no one.”
I shrugged. “Could have fooled me. That gun was pointed everywhere, but the moon.”
He huffed a laugh, then coughed. “Mary’s never going to forgive me.”
I sat next to him, letting the silence do most of the talking. “You let yourself stay this way, and she definitely won’t.” I nudged his shoulder. “Sober up, face her. That’s how you start.”
He looked at me, then past me, to where Floyd was giving orders to the cluster of deputies. For once, nobody was side-eyeing me—maybe I’d graduated from town menace to local oddity. Or maybe nobody wanted to admit I’d been useful.
Floyd broke away from the group and walked over, a manila folder in one hand, the gun in a plastic bag in the other. He stopped a few feet away, like he knew better than to crowd us.
“You okay?” he asked Gator.
Gator mumbled something. Floyd didn’t press, just set the evidence bag on the hood of his truck and turned to me.
“You did good in there,” he said, voice low enough that I knew it was meant for me alone.
I rolled my eyes, but my skin prickled. “Don’t get used to it. I still hate authority.”
