Neither of us spoke.
We had heard the gunshots.
One.
Then another.
Then shouting.
Then nothing.
The silence after was worse.
Every second stretched.
Every sound from above made me jump.
A boot on the porch.
A voice outside.
A radio crackling somewhere near the house.
I kept staring at the cellar door.
Waiting.
Praying.
Trying not to imagine the worst.
Dad reached over.
Took my hand.
His fingers were rough from years of ranch work.
Warm.
Steady.
“He’ll come back,” he said.
I wanted to believe him.
I did.
But Beast had gone after a man with a gun.
A man who had already fired at our home.
A man who had nothing left to lose.
“What if Gerald hurt him?” I whispered.
Dad’s jaw tightened.
“Then Gerald made the last mistake of his life.”
