“She has a gun!”
“She’s a danger to herself. That’s all. That’s my fear. I’m afraid she’s going to get herself killed.”
“Richard, you’ve lost your mind,” she said, and it seemed as if she might have been about to say more. But she stopped. She stopped because behind him the door was opening, and there she was. Alexandra. Richard saw Kristin putting their daughter behind her, protecting her, as if she expected Alexandra to start shooting.
“I go,” Alexandra said, and she was pulling her knit cap over her ears. “I go.”
“No. You should stay. You have to stay. But tell me now, tell me once and for all: Did you shoot”—and he paused, unsure whether he was pronouncing the thug’s name correctly—“Kirill? Did you?”
He knew that Alexandra had heard him; she had to have heard him. But she didn’t answer, because she and Kristin were staring at each other. Or, to be precise, Kristin was staring at Alexandra. And Alexandra? She was looking both at his wife and his daughter, her gaze flat, her expression impenetrable. Melissa was peering around her mother’s ribs, as if Kristin were a tree and this were only a game of hide-and-seek.
“Tell me!”
She didn’t entirely return to him. Her focus was still elsewhere, though she was turning her head ever so slightly. Somehow, something in addition to his wife and his daughter had stolen her attention.
“He shot himself,” she said finally.
“What?”
“He was about to shoot Sonja. Was going to kill her for killing Pavel for sure. Was going to kill her right in front of everyone in your very nice living room. But it doesn’t matter. I go.”
“Give me your gun,” he said. “Give me your gun and go back inside. My wife and my daughter will come inside, too.” He turned toward his wife and met Kristin’s eyes; for a moment he couldn’t read them. But then she nodded ever so slightly.
“I promise you,” he told the girl, “you’ll be safe. Someone was talking to Crystal. That means someone knows what those men were doing to you. Demanding of you. Someone is investigating them. You’re not the criminal here.”
“They won’t believe I didn’t shoot Kirill.”
“Let’s go inside. You can tell me exactly how it happened. But give me the pistol first.”
He felt his wife and his daughter watching him. He had his wife back; he never again wanted to lose her. But he knew just how fragile that new bond was. How delicate. At the same time, he wanted his daughter to view him with neither disdain nor disgust. Maybe she understood he was a little clumsy, but let that be his gravest fault in her eyes. Wouldn’t any father sign up for that rep? Pure and simple, he wanted everything to be the way it had been seven days ago. God, seven days. One week. How had all he had taken for granted evaporated in the roaring, animal heat from one bachelor party? But he knew the answer to that. He needed only to glance at this Armenian girl to remember. But now he wanted only to make amends, to make things right. To caulk the hollow in the heart of his family. To make sure this poor girl whose soul had been battered almost since birth was safe. (And after viewing that body on the slab this morning, never again would he question the actuality—arguably, even the tangibility—of the soul, because without it he had seen that we are all just decomposing flesh.)
“Are we good?” he asked Alexandra, and he extended his hand to her, palm open.
“We’re fine,” she answered, her gaze oddly far away. “But it doesn’t matter. They still have last laugh.”