What am I doing? What the fuck am I doing?
But I'm already lifting it. Already feeling the weight of it—heavier than I expected, the metal still warm from being fired. The smell hits me next. Gunpowder. Sharp, and acrid, andrealin a way that makes my stomach lurch.
I've written this. I've written this exact moment a dozen times. The heroine finds the weapon. The heroine takes control.
But I'm not a heroine. I'm a fucking mess in yoga pants who drove two hours to confront a murderer and now there'stwomen covered in blood and I don't know which one is the monster anymore.
Rack it. You have to rack it.
The thought comes from somewhere outside myself. From every action movie I've ever watched. From the scene inCaptive Heartswhere Lydia disarms her kidnapper. From muscle memory that doesn't belong to me—that belongs to characters I invented, women who were braver than I'll ever be.
My hands move.
Chk-chk.
The sound is obscene. Mechanical. Final.
Both men freeze.
The fighting stops like someone hit pause on a video. Ryan's arm is locked around Caleb's throat. Caleb's face is red, his eyes bulging, but now they're both staring at me.
At the gun in my shaking hands.
Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god.
I'm pointing it at them. Atbothof them. The barrel swings from Caleb to Ryan and back again because I don't know—I don't fuckingknow?—
"Don't move." My voice comes out wrong. Too high. Cracking on the second word like a teenager's. "Don't fucking move."
Ryan's grip on Caleb loosens slightly. His eyes—they're calculating. Reading me. Seeing exactly how terrified I am.
He knows I don't know what I'm doing.
"Either of you." I force the words out louder. Swing the barrel back toward Caleb, then Ryan, then somewhere in between. "Don't. Fucking.Move."
My arms are trembling. The gun is too heavy. I can feel my pulse in my fingertips, in my throat, behind my eyes.
I'm going to throw up.
I'm going to drop this gun.
I'm going to get us all killed.
You're not in your stories anymore, Scarletta. This is real. This is fucking real.
Ryan starts first. "Do you know this guy?"
And as he says this, Caleb gets free, he's on his feet, reaching for Ryan?—
The shotgun goes off.
The sound isenormous—a physical thing that slaps me across the face, makes my ears ring, rattles my teeth in my skull. The recoil slams into my stomach hard enough that I stagger back a step, almost drop the damn thing.
Splinters of wood rain down from above.
Oh god. Oh shit. Oh fuck.
I didn't mean to—or did I? My finger pulled the trigger. The gun fired. There's a hole in the roof now, a ragged circle of daylight punching through the shadows, dust motes swirling in the sudden beam of summer sun.
