Page 58 of But For You

It was so fast. Kola and Hannah both screamed as they were woken up and saw the man aim his gun at us in the light that had spilled in from the outer room with Sam.

Everything happened at once. I grabbed both kids and shoved their faces against my chest so neither of them saw their father fire the gun. The sound of the shot was loud in the small room, but it was instantaneous and followed by silence. My children’s crying lasted longer, but I was thankful that they needed comfort, needed me, because if they didn’t, if I had been allowed even a moment to think, I would have come apart myself.

Sam stood over the dead man as Duncan Stiel—it had to be him; he was big like Sam, as Pat had said—came into the room. Once Sam told me to take the kids out, I pulled the blanket off the bed, covered them both so they couldn’t see anything, and took them to the bathroom. Once they both went and washed their hands, I took them to our room and put them in bed. They were scared that Sam could get hurt—they had not been allowed to see that the intruder was dead after all—and I called for him to come in and see us.

Once Sam came in—visibly shaken from the look on his face and the slight tremble in his hands—and they saw that he was all right, they were both better. He kissed them both, told them to snuggle up with me, and closed the door behind him when he left. I lay there, rubbing both their backs, promising them that their daddy would never let anything happen to them. I was very thankful when they both nodded off.

After an hour, I got up and went out to the living room, where Sam was standing with Duncan, three policemen, four marshals—everyone had helpful blue jackets on that proclaimed what division of law enforcement they were a part of in big block yellow letters—and some crime scene investigators walking in and out of my room.

Sam’s Glock, I noted, was in an evidence bag, and one of the marshals had given Sam a new gun, which he checked over before he replaced it in his ankle holster. He had to be armed, so it made sense that they took one and replaced one. I knew his had to be checked out, and ballistics needed to be run, and they had to investigate if Sam had been justified when he killed the man who was in our kids’ room. I wasn’t worried about that, but any inquiry took time, and right then, I was worried that he wouldn’t be coming home with us.

Duncan was answering questions, pointing, going over what he’d seen and heard, and Sam was talking with the marshals.

After several minutes, where I took a seat on the couch, I was joined by two policemen and Duncan, who brought over a blanket and covered me with it, before taking a seat beside me and putting an arm around my shoulders. It was nice because I was freezing, inside and out. The blanket had been thoughtful, but his anchoring arm was best. He was big, like Sam, and when he tucked me closer, I sighed deeply.

“Mr. Harcourt”—the first policeman, in a lightweight brown suit with a really ugly tie, addressed me—“I’m Detective Ibarra, and this is my partner, Detective Sykes. We just need to ask you what happened this evening, and we need you to be as precise as possible.”

What they didn’t know was that I was very familiar with speaking to law enforcement. At the beginning of my relationship with Sam Kage, as well as after, it had been a frequent experience. And lately, since the kids had come into our lives, things had changed, but I still knew how to handle myself and what to say and how to say it.

I went over the facts, told them about realizing that the man was on the balcony, then about texting Sam—using the code we had set up years ago, the 911 that let him know I was in danger—and how all I could do was clutch my children to me. I told them what the man had said, how I was in fear for myself and my kids and how quickly Sam had responded.

“Is that all?” Ibarra asked me.

“Yes,” I told him.

“Did you see anyone else?”

“No.”

“Did your husband fire more than once?”

“Absolutely not.”

He nodded.

“Is there anything else that you––”

“He told you everything,” Duncan stated, his words clipped. “All of it follows what you’re looking at; the crime scene guys agree, so don’t try and jam up a––”

“We’re not trying to jam up anybody,” Sykes assured him. “We just want to make sure that Mr. Harcourt didn’t see anyone else. We’re looking for leads to explain all this, Stiel.”

“I think Supervisory Deputy Marshal Kage already explained to you what this is.”

“Yeah, but––”

“It’s an ongoing criminal case that he’s in the middle of that Mr. Harcourt can share no further insight into, as he is not involved, in any way, with said investigation.”

“We would be remiss if––”

“Talk to Supervisory Deputy Marshal Kage. He’s the one with the answers,” he directed them.

Ibarra leaned back on the coffee table he was sitting on. “We’re going to need your weapon, Detective Stiel.”

“I didn’t fire my gun, and your crime scene people already confirmed that, so, no, you don’t get my gun. I’m on vacation, man, just passing through. If you’re looking to mess with me, call my boss in Chicago.”

Both detectives thanked me for my statement, then said that I might be required to go down to their office and make another more formal one.

“No,” Duncan told me once they walked away. “That’s bullshit. You don’t have to do that. Your part in this clusterfuck is over.”