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He didn’t exactly want to be noticed by someone shooting wildly.
He switched to text message and found Uncle Jay’s number—his dad’s texting was sporadic at best.
Shots fired at house on opp side dairy farm. Send help.
A text came back almost immediately.
U OK?
Hunter moved to text back, but another gunshot exploded somewhere above him. He shoved the phone back into his pocket and slid toward the front of the house.
The front door was half open, the lower level a well of darkness. Was this a robbery in progress? He might have believed that—if Clare hadn’t already stolen his gun. Hunter ducked inside. He waited for his eyes to acclimate, then eased around furniture toward the staircase.
Someone was crying upstairs.
Clare?
But then he heard Clare’s voice, cold and hard and definitely not full of tears.
“You leave her alone. I swear to god I will shoot you.”
Then a man’s voice. “Shoot me. They’ll lock you up, and then what’ll you do?”
“I’ll shoot. I will.” Clare’s voice sounded strong, but Hunter heard the slightest waver beneath the words. He kept the .45 in his hands and eased up the steps.
And then he turned the corner and they were right there, in the hallway. Clare had the gun in her hands, held at chest level in both hands, just like he’d shown her.
The gun was pointed at a man in his forties wearing nothing but a pair of jeans. Hunter could smell alcohol from here.
And on the floor behind Clare lay a crumpled woman, crying, her hands over her face. Hunter could see blood between her fingers.
Hunter trained the gun on the man. “Clare,” he breathed carefully, not wanting to spook her with the gun in her hands. “It’s okay. I called the cops.”
Almost on cue, he could hear the thready sounds of a siren.
“Hunter,” she said. Her voice broke. “Hunter, you have to go.”
“It’s okay,” he said again. “I’ll hold him. Just . . . just put the gun down. Slide the safety, remember?”
The man sneered at him. “You won’t hold shit, kid.”
Hunter snorted. His own gun didn’t waver. “Some pacifist.”
“I just said . . . I just said that because—” Clare’s voice broke again. She still had the gun pointed at the man, but her grip was wavering badly. “My brother used to stop . . . used to stop him—”
“It’s okay,” said Hunter carefully. “It’s okay. Just put the gun down. The cops are coming. You don’t need to shoot him.”
The sirens were very close now. Tires crunched on the driveway, and a car door slammed.
“See?” said Hunter. “They’re here. You need to put the gun down so they don’t shoot you.”
“They’re here?” said Clare.
“They’re here. They won’t let him hurt you. Or your mother.”
“Okay.” Clare turned toward him with the gun in her hands.
“No!” Hunter dodged to get out of her line of fire—especially since her father had lunged forward to grab for the weapon.
