“I can wait here, if you want to go get it.”
An unexpected smile, pure mischief, lights up her face. “Wouldn’t Mrs. Carlton just love that? She’s already watching us from her window. Come in. Guessing what we’re up to will totally make her day.”
She steps aside to let him into the entryway and leads him into the living room.
“Hang on, I’ll go get it.”
Funny how a uniform and a crisis change everything. Out of his uniform now, with no official business here, it feels strange and wrong to him that he knows the floor plan of the house, has been in the master bedroom, has seen the blood in the kitchen. He’s here by invitation, he reminds himself. He’s here to do a favor. Such a small thing, really, and he hates the way the inevitable anxiety creeps into his body.
Maisey is blessedly quick, returning in less than a minute with a shapeless leather handbag. She holds it gingerly in outstretched hands. “It’s in here.”
“I thought you said it was in your mom’s knitting bag.”
“It was. I couldn’t just leave it there.” She presses the purse against his chest, and he can’t do anything other than grab it. His hands are starting to tremble. He can feel it, though thank God it isn’t visible yet.
Turning his back to her, he carries the purse over to the couch and sets it down, feeling his way through the clutter of items for the gun, which he knows will have settled to the bottom.
“My mother caught me snooping in my sister’s purse when I was six,” he says, offering an explanation for his reaction, a story that is true, although far from the truth. “I caught a spanking for that one. She said a woman’s purse is private business, and a man should keep his hands to himself.”
“Must have been a pretty effective spanking.”
“You’d think so, right? You’d be wrong. Jessica caught me snooping in her purse again later. Hey, I was curious about the ways of women. Jess wasn’t bound by any maternal principles of responsible discipline. She beat me up. Bloody nose. Black eye. When I tattled to my mom, she just looked at me. ‘Bet you don’t do that again,’ she said, and she was right. Now, thirty years later, you’re forcing me to scale the fortress. I’m terrified.”
He lifts the gun out of the handbag, keeping the barrel down while he ejects the magazine and clears a 9-millimeter round from the chamber.
“Your mom is a badass. It was fully loaded with one in the pipe.”
“No.”
Maisey’s tone makes him look up. Her eyes, wide with alarm, dominate her face. She shakes her head, emphatically. “My mom is the queen of the church supper and the PTA. She is vociferously antigun. When I was a kid, she tried to start an organization for mothers against firearms. It didn’t fare well here in Colville, but I can’t imagine what would change her like this.”
“Maybe it belongs to your dad? A lot of women opt for a .22. This is a Glock with a high-capacity magazine. It’s a lot of gun.”
A laugh bubbles up out of her. “My dad? Not exactly a gun man.”
“It must belong to one of your parents,” Tony persists. “Nobody else lives here, right?”
Maisey’s face crumples at his words, and she chokes on a sound halfway between laughter and tears. “I can’t ask either of them,” she whispers.
Hell.
He wants to comfort her, to make her laugh again, but that’s not why he’s here. Secure the gun, make sure everybody is safe, get out. That’s the plan.
He lays the emptied gun down on the coffee table and thumbs the ammo out of the magazine. “Maybe you can ask your dad tomorrow. I’ve seen people come clear overnight with rest and hydration.”
“Maybe.” She looks like a defiant child, hands clenched into fists, blinking against a flood of tears. A choked sob escapes her, and then another. All at once she reminds him of his little sister, Mia, and his resolve is all undone. “Hey,” he says. “Hey.”
He puts a hand on her shoulder. Her body stiffens, and he thinks he’s made a mistake, but then all the tension goes out of her, and she rests her forehead against his chest. Tony strokes her hair, murmuring, “Hush, now, it will be all right,” as if she’s a child.
Her arms go around him, and she buries her face in his shirt, her body shaking with sobs.
He holds her. Just like comforting one of his sisters, he tells himself. But it isn’t. Not remotely. Her hair isn’t smooth and black; it’s soft and fine as silk. A red-gold curl catches on his hand and winds around his fingers. Her back is a long, smooth-muscled arc, and his body responds, against his will, with an inconvenient arousal.
Thinking desperate thoughts of cold showers and accident scenes doesn’t do much to help.
When her tears slow, and she draws in a shuddering breath, he drops his hands with a mixture of relief and regret and waits for the fallout. “Don’t be mad now,” he says.
Maisey scrubs the tears from her eyes with the palms of both hands and blinks up at him. “What? Why would I be mad?”
“I have sisters, remember? They always get bitchy after I see them cry. Especially if I’m nice.” He grins at her, trying to look big-brotherly and nonchalant and having no idea if he’s succeeding or not.
She snorts, and a little snot bubble comes out of her nose.
“Oh my God,” she says, clamping both hands over her face.
Tony laughs. Despite his body’s demands, despite the gun waiting on the coffee table, despite everything, it’s genuine, clear, delighted laughter. He fetches the box of tissues sitting on the end table by the couch and brings them to her.
“Tears are damned messy,” he says.
She grabs a handful and turns her back to blow her nose and dry her face.
“How many sisters?” she asks.
“Five.”
She spins around and goggles up at him, jolted out of her embarrassment. “Five? Five sisters?”
“Yes, ma’am. Four older, one younger. Not a brother in the bunch. You?”
“I’m an only.”
“Lucky.”
“Am I? It seems like it might be fun to have sisters.” There’s a wistfulness in her voice.
“Yes. Well,” he says, wondering what it might have been like to grow up alone, without the tangle of girls alternately tormenting and taking care of him, “sisters are a mixed bag. Trust me. That was my little sister who answered the phone when you called. Mia. We share a house.”
Maisey’s mouth opens, then closes again. A slow flush darkens cheeks already red from her weeping.
“What?” he asks.
“I thought she was your girlfriend.”
She says it like maybe it matters to her, whether he has a girlfriend or not. His heart skips a beat, and he’s quick to tame it. “Girlfriend? Ha! Too many women in my life already. Seriously. Mia’s good people, but I should warn you that she’ll want to meet you now. You sure you’re not mad?”
“Not the tiniest bit. A little embarrassed. Very grateful. For the gun, and for . . . can you keep it for me? The gun? I don’t know what to do with it.”
Tony’s heart jabs sideways. His belly tightens. Whatever he does tonight, he won’t be taking the gun with him. He needs a solution, and he needs one now.
“Tell you what. You hold on to the gun. I’ll take this.” He tucks the magazine into the front pocket of his jeans. “That way it can’t hurt anybody. Can you get me a ziplock bag for the ammo?” He looks up at her, questioning.
Her eyes are focused on the gun, her forehead creased with worry. But then she draws a deep breath, and her face clears. “Deal.” She picks the weapon up with the tips of her fingers and drops it back into her handbag. For a minute she just stands there, as if she doesn’t know what to do next, and then she sort of crumples down onto the couch.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Exhausted,” she says, sliding down so she can rest her head. “I feel like I’ve gone boneless.”
“When did you last eat?” He hears the words come out of his mouth and wants to call them back. What are you doing, idiot? Get out of this house. Bail.
“I don’t know,” she says. “Yesterday? Maybe the day before.”