Above us, the helicopter circles. Down the mountain, by the shooting range, Ginger barks into the night, a rifle by her side.
“Are you sure Ginger likes me?” I ask Freya.
“She loves you,” Freya says.
I back away, hands raised, drawing Paul toward me. I can make him feel alone all over again. I can make him lose control and direct his rage at me. And before this night is through, he’ll answer my questions.
“Freya and I had an amazing night,” I say. “A night I’ll remember forever. The sex blew my mind, but afterward is what mattered. Lying beside each other, waking together the next morning. I’m so sorry things never worked out the way you wanted with her. It could have been mind-blowing for you, too. I’m sorry you’ve spent your life alone.”
The helicopter sweeps forward. “Down!” Seton shouts over the loudspeaker.
I drop as the helicopter swoops in low. I scramble into the trees, Paul in pursuit, like I hoped he would be. A bullet ricochets off a tree. I veer from the path, sliding over the uneven terrain, not stopping until the trees open on the pasture below. I dash onto the field, through the posts topped with aluminum cans, toward the stone wall, where Ginger snarls, and the single-shot rifle waits beside her with an open box of ammunition.
I stop short when I reach the dog.
“Sit,” I say, my voice shaking.
Ginger gnashes her teeth.
Behind me, Paul crashes from the trees and onto the field. “Where will you run now, Charlie?” he shouts.
I turn to face him.
He fires the gun. A bullet whizzes past me.
“Come on, Ginger,” I say, reaching a hand toward her.
She barks again but doesn’t bite.
“Freya says you love me,” I say.
I meet the dog’s eyes. She snarls. I take a step forward, then another. I haven’t lost any fingers yet. “Release,” I say, my voice firm.
The dog transforms, ears soft, tail wagging. I unhitch the line from her collar and dive past her, over the stone wall. “Come,” I shout, as Paul shoots again.
Ginger leaps after me. I grab the rifle and a fistful of ammunition.
“Down,” I say.
She goes into an active down.
My hands shake as I crack open the chamber and shove in a bullet. I rest the barrel on the wall, take aim, shoot one of the aluminum cans from its post, then fall behind the wall to reload.
“Don’t make me hurt you,” I shout.
I find Paul in the scope. He levels his gun in my direction. I shoot another aluminum can. “Next time,” I say, “I won’t be aiming at a target.”
Paul pulls the trigger, firing one round after another. I duck, pressing into the stone wall and hugging Ginger to my chest as she struggles to escape the noise. Then the shooting stops. I raise my head. Across the field, Paul pulls at the trigger. The gun clicks uselessly, the clip spent.
I shoot down the final aluminum can. “There’s only one target left,” I shout. “You.”
Paul’s face blanches under the moon as the final vestige of the man who served as my surrogate father fades. He lowers his gun to the ground and raises both hands.
“Get down,” I say.
He sinks to his knees.
“Tell me what you did. Say it out loud. What happened after my mother figured out what you’d done?”
