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“You probably should try not to look so constipated when you do,” I suggest.

“Shut up,” she mutters. “Sorry if I didn’t, like, grow up with a gun collection. We weren’t one of those families you see on Christmas cards with an entire arsenal spread out around them.”

“Something tells me we should keep it small,” I tell Theo. “We don’t need her blowing herself off her feet.” That would rule out several of the higher-powered options.

“What I wanna know is, if you’re supposed to be retired, why do you have all of this out here?” she asks.

“Good question,” I agree.

“We’re not here to discuss that.” Theo picks up a Glock, shows her how to make sure it’s loaded before he takes a few practice shots at the first target.

“Wow,” she whispers when he’s finished. “You, like, really are good at this. I think you hit the bull’s-eye all three times.”

“That’s the point.” When he hands it over, it’s with hesitation. He’s finally starting to understand what he’s gotten himself into. “Now. Your turn.”

“It’s like that old show, Charlie’s Angels.” She poses, pretending like she’s blowing smoke from the gun’s muzzle.

“Jesus Christ, don’t point the damn thing anywhere near your head while your finger’s on the trigger. I thought you’d done your research?” Theo looks and sounds like he’s on the verge of a heart attack. Welcome to my world, pal.

“Sorry, sorry.” She straightens her posture and takes aim . . . then squeezes her eyes shut while squeezing the trigger.

Theo heaves a sigh. “What did I tell you about closing your eyes?”

“I thought that was only when I’m trying to punch somebody.” This time, she flinches under the weight of both our stares. “Sorry. This is all new to me. I’ve never fired a gun before now.”

Pausing, she tips her head to the side. “It’s pretty badass.”

“It would be even more badass if you managed to hit the target, which you didn’t.” Theo nods toward the untouched paper. “Again.”

She complies . . . and after a half dozen shots still can’t manage to keep her eyes open. If anything, she gets worse, flinching hard when she fires. “It’s harder to pull a trigger than you’d think,” she muses. “I have to remember that the next time I write a book with guns in it.”

I exchange a look with my brother, who’s aged ten years in the past hour. “Any other suggestions?”

“There is one,” he announces with a weary sigh. “How good are you at stealth?”

An eternity passes while June blinks silently at him. “With what, now?”

“Stealth. Being quiet. Sneaking around.”

This is too funny. I’d laugh if my life wasn’t on the line.

She shrugs, casting a helpless look my way. “I don’t know. I’ve never tried.”

“You’ll try today.” Crooking a finger, he leads the way to what looks like part of an obstacle course set up beside a towering barn. He must have been busy this morning. A wooden frame sits roughly a foot off the ground, maybe a little more, strung with wire and hung with bells.

“When did you come up with this?” I eye the structure, impressed.

“I like to be sure I’m on my game. Just in case.” He won’t meet my gaze. “In the early days, I used the bells around the house. On the windows, the doors. A homemade security system. Now everything is state of the art.”

June shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “What am I supposed to do here?”

“You’re going to crawl under the wire on your stomach,” he explains. “Without making the bells chime.”

She looks at him. Looks at me. Then bursts out laughing. “I’m going to what? There’s no way. It’s much too low to the ground for me to get under it without ringing the bells.”

“If I can do it, you can. You’re much smaller than me.” He drops to his knees and moves quickly, smoothly, crawling under the wires without so much as a faint chime.

“Show-off,” June whispers, arms folded.