Chapter One #3
“No,” he says, but I can see a little flash in his eye that tells me differently. One thing I fell in love with, after the
whole Ray disaster, was Carson’s honesty and seeming inability to effectively lie about anything without giving it away. I
appreciate this quality, but not right now.
“What is it?” I ask.
“It’s nothing. I don’t know.”
“What?”
“The other day, I . . . I don’t know. I thought I saw someone. Like a figure. I didn’t want to worry you for no reason. Probably
nothing.”
“What do you mean? Where?” I ask, because we live on the lakefront but behind us is fifty acres of wooded land, so a figure
usually means a rustle in the trees from an animal or something innocuous.
“I don’t know—just out in the woods. It looked like a guy standing there, staring. I don’t know if it was, but I think that’s
what I saw. I . . .”
“You know it was Tia, right? She’s always skulking around the property taking photos.”
“No. It was . . . different. Eerie.”
“Maybe a hunter wandered over. It happens—they don’t know it’s private property if they’re out in the thick of it.”
“Yeah, maybe. But seriously. I think about you out here. I have to go to Albany for work tomorrow. You’ll be here alone for
a couple days. Don’t you want to feel like you have some hope to protect yourself if something ever happened?” he asks, leaning
back in the sofa with a resigned sigh.
We’ve talked about this before, and of course I’ve thought about it, but there are a lot of mixed feelings. Touching that
thing scares the hell out of me.
“It’s just . . . ugh. I don’t know if I can. I’ve gone this long, right?”
“But shit’s getting weird. You let Dez shoot cans with me, learn responsible gun owning and all that.”
“Because he has an interest in it, and I want him to be educated—”
“Right,” he interrupts. “So all you need to know is the very basics. You don’t need to go to the range and have it be this
whole intimidating thing. We have a billion acres to practice on. Just let me show you how and make sure it’s accessible when
you’re home alone, and then I’ll never bother you about it again,” he says. He waits, blinking at me.
“Now?” I say, curled up in the chair, wearing comfy yoga pants and holding my glass of wine.
“I leave for two days in the morning, so yeah. It will be fun. Date night can-shooting.” He reaches out to take my hand and pull me up.
I hate the idea of it. Hate it. But he has a point.
Something is happening around here and some figure lurking in our woods doesn’t exactly make me want to stay here alone.
Would I feel better if I had any hope of protecting myself against danger?
I mean, I’d never have to touch the thing again, but knowing it’s there and that I know how to load it, hold it .
. . I don’t even know what cocking a gun really means, but I’ve heard the term on TV and it’s probably something I should know how to do.
I let him pull me to my feet. I put my glass down and grab his hoodie from the back of a chair and pull it on.
“One and only time,” I say. And I follow him out past the clearing of the yard, into the trees where the fence sits about
fifteen yards in the distance, already set up with Dez’s Dr Pepper cans for shooting practice.
It’s dusk and I’m happy for the sun to set in the next thirty minutes because that will mean this is short and sweet. Carson
shows me bullets and explains things like caliber and releasing the cylinder and whatever the hell a magazine is, and when
we finally get down to the “me shooting” stage, my hands shake. I’m standing under a canopy of towering pines in my UGG slippers
and stretchy pants and I’m about to shoot a gun. I feel detached from myself—everyone would say I’m making too big a deal
of it, but it feels wrong. There are only a few cans left on the fence, but I don’t plan on actually hitting them anyway,
so that’s fine. I take a deep breath . . . Then I shoot.
I miss by a long shot, and he smirks.
“That was good,” he says. And in my defense, it’s getting dark and hard to see that far in the shadowy light.
“Shut up.” I try again. I don’t hit a can, but I’m closer. I find myself laughing at this.
“Holy crap. I was close that time,” I say.
He smiles and nods at me proudly. Okay, this isn’t terrible.
“You’re doing great,” he says. He comes over and helps me line up the shot perfectly and then backs away. I shoot one more time, and to my shock, I hit the can. Well, Carson’s alignment hit the can, not so much me, but still.
“Oh, my God! Yes!” I cheer. “I did it.”
“You’re a pro,” he says.
“We need more cans up,” I say, and he laughs.
“Well, all right,” he says. “I’ll grab the empty Michelob Ultras, and I have to get some more ammo. I didn’t think you’d last
this long.”
“Ammo,” I mimic. What a dumb word. He shakes his head and starts toward the house. Then his phone rings and he takes it from
his pocket and answers. He holds up a finger as if to tell me he needs a minute and goes toward the house. I know with his
job, a minute means an hour, and so I almost decide to give up on the whole thing, but then I notice one more can left on
the fence, so I take another shot. I miss, but I have to admit it’s kind of fun. I decide to jog out to the fence to gather
the fallen Dr Pepper cans even though they’re mostly bent and obliterated. More cans lined up across the fence means better
odds I’ll actually hit a target. Carson will be over the moon I’m making an effort . . . but when I reach the fence, I see
something.
Something that steals my breath. Something horrific and life shattering that I can’t believe I’m looking at.
I cup my mouth with both hands and stifle a scream. I drop to my knees and try to breathe, but I begin to hyperventilate.
“Oh, my God, oh, my God!” I hold my chest and tears prick my eyes. My hands shake violently and I’m paralyzed in terror. What
have I done? What have I done?
In front of me on the ground, just behind the fence I was shooting at is . . . a body. God help me. It’s Tia Hainsley. Shot.
Dead.