Most people call the thing that’s loaded into a gun a bullet, but what they’re referring to is technically a cartridge.
A standard 9mm cartridge has two main parts: the casing and the projectile, both of which separate into two distinct pieces.
When the trigger on a Glock is pulled, an extractor inside the gun grabs on to the rim of the casing to hold it in place. A firing pin hits the primer, causing the powder to explode, which sends the projectile down the barrel at a rate that’s faster than the speed of sound.
That projectile is the part of the cartridge that is commonly referred to as a bullet. The remaining bit, the casing, is ejected out of the side of the weapon so that another cartridge can take its place.
The fifth casing wasn’t in the woods. It was in the attic. Emmy turned her head to the left. Toward the hallway where Jude had been standing. Toward the wall where the bullet had stopped. She turned off her flashlight. A single beam of light shone like a spotlight through a narrow hole in the ceiling.
Suddenly, the crime scene made sense.
No stranger had slipped through the back door, stolen Allison’s Glock from her purse, and started shooting. Bill hadn’t lost control of his temper. Reggie hadn’t sent his team. The Rawleys hadn’t put out a hit. Russell hadn’t sought his revenge.
Mandy had killed Allison.
Emmy grabbed one of the rafters to steady herself as bile rushed up her throat.
Bill had said that Allison and Mandy had been fighting for two days. He’d left the house the morning of the shooting because they were still arguing. By then, Allison had told Mandy that they were leaving town with Bill.
Emmy couldn’t imagine the girl’s desperation. Trapped inside a decade-long nightmare with Bill Garrison. Praying that the fantasy father she’d always dreamed about was going to save her from an impossible situation. Knowing that her actual father was not just a bad man but as sadistic and cruel as the man shekept begging her mother to leave. Realizing that Allison had the power to save them both but was choosing not to. Impulsively grasping at any means of escape.
Was that why Mandy had grabbed the gun in Allison’s purse? She couldn’t have meant to kill her mother. She’d just wanted it to stop. The first bullet had gone wild, shearing off Allison’s thumb and finger. It was too late to stop by then. Allison had run. Mandy had chased her. The second bullet had hit the wall by the cabinets. The third shot had hit Allison square in the chest.
What had that moment been like, both of their nightmares come true? Mandy had been terrified of losing her mother. Allison had always known that she would eventually be killed.
The blood told the story of what happened next. Mandy had rushed to Allison. Her mother’s blood had soaked her hands. Had Allison told her to call an ambulance? Or had Allison told her baby how to get away?
Between thepopof the third bullet that had killed Allison and the fourthpopfrom upstairs, Emmy’s cruiser had screeched to a halt outside. Allison had been a cop. She would’ve known what was happening in the street, understood the clock was ticking. She must have known the wound was fatal. Had she used that fleeting time to tell Mandy that she loved her? Or had she used some of those seconds to tell Mandy how to stage the scene?
That’s why Mandy had grabbed the black glove from Allison’s purse. She’d left bloody footprints crossing the den to the back stairs. She had gone into Allison’s bedroom. Shot out the window. Tossed the black glove onto the roof. Smeared bloody handprints on the windowsill. Gone to her safe space in the attic.
Then Emmy had busted through the front door. Moments later, Jude had walked into the hallway, and the girl in the attic had felt the jaws of the trap snapping down all over again.
Emmy slowly bent her knees. Looked closely at the ceiling joists. She could see where the blood wicked into the wood. Mandy had been lying on her side. Legs splayed to keep her balance. Hands holding the Glock because she didn’t know how to get rid of it.
The decision must have been quick. Once the panic and theanger had burned off, and the enormity of what she’d done finally started to sink in, the guilt and shame must have taken hold, and she’d made one last desperate mistake.
It was a terrible thing to put a gun to your head. Mandy’s hands must have been shaking. Her palms too sweaty to form a proper grip. Maybe she’d lost her nerve, but it was too late, because the trigger had been pressed. The firing pin had ignited the powder. The casing had ejected into the rafters.
And the bullet had spun out of the muzzle, torn open the left side of Mandy’s skull, pierced the ceiling of Allison’s bedroom, grazed Jude’s temple on its way through the hallway, then lodged into the wall by Mandy’s bed.
Emmy clamped her hand to her mouth to stop the bile from spewing out. She lost her balance. Her head banged into a rafter. She blindly reached out, ripping away a section of insulation. She skipped over two joists before she found her footing again.
“Emmy?”
Jude’s voice was barely audible over the pounding of Emmy’s heart. She stumbled toward the attic access. Sat on the edge. Kicked her feet until she found purchase. All she could do was try to control her fall.
“I’ve got you.” Jude held on to her legs, helped lower her gently to the floor.
“Mandy did it.” Emmy heard the incessant ticking again. She realized it was the sound of her own teeth chattering. “Mandy killed her.”
“I know, sweetheart.”
“She couldn’t take it anymore. She was all alone. She couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. No one would help her. Russell was abusing her. She didn’t trust her friends. Every time she thought she was going to get away, that she was gonna have some peace, her own mother pulled her right back into it. She couldn’t escape. She had nowhere to go.”
“Let’s go outside. Get some air.”
“I don’t need air.” Emmy’s knees could barely hold her up. She lurched into the hall. Stood in the doorway to Mandy’s bedroom with its K-pop posters and rainbow stickers. “How did this happen? Why didn’t Allison take her away?”
