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“Do I remind you of her, Connor?”
Connor ladles himself stew and answers without looking at her. “Not really. But dinner’s kind of the same.”
“Betcha didn’t have rabbit,” says Grace through a mouthful of stew.
Connor wishes that some sort of black hole could suck away everyone’s attention from this embarrassing faux pas. About five seconds later, Connor gets schooled in being careful for what he wishes.
The main window in the great room suddenly shatters, and stone chips fly from a small hole in the back wall—a hole that hadn’t been there a second ago.
“Down!” Connor yells. “Under the table! Now!” He has instantly flipped into battle mode and takes charge. He doesn’t know if anyone else realizes it was a bullet, but they’ll figure it out. What matters is that he gets them out of harm’s way. Everyone does as they’re told. “Kele—no, over here—out of the window’s sight lines!”
As Kele moves closer, Connor bolts across the room to the light switches and turns them off, leaving them in darkness, so the shooter can’t see them. With sudden adrenaline pumping through his retinas, his eyes adjust remarkably quickly to the dark.
“Pivane!” cries Elina. “Call the police.”
“We can’t call the police,” he says. That realization hits them all at once. If they call the police, they’ll have to explain why they were shot at. Connor, Lev, and Grace will be exposed.
Then Pivane stands up and strides toward the shattered window.
“Pivane!” yells Connor. “What are you, crazy? Get down!”
But Pivane just stands there. It’s Grace who points out what only she and Pivane have come to understand.
“That shot was all the way across the room,” Grace says. “Kinda like in old war movies. A shot across our bow. They didn’t mean to kill no one.”
“A warning?” suggests Lev.
“A message,” answers Pivane. Still, the rest are reluctant to move from under the table.
Connor steps away from the light switch to stand next to Pivane, looking out into the darkness. There are some lights in the homes across ravine. It could have come from just about anywhere. There is no second shot.
“Someone knows we’re here,” Connor says, “and wants us gone.”
“I’m sorry!” Kele pleads. “Nova promised she wouldn’t tell anyone, but she must have. It’s my fault.”
“Maybe so and maybe not.” Pivane turns to Connor. “Either way, it’s not safe for you in this house. We’ll need to move you.”
“The old sweat lodge?” suggests Kele, which somehow sounds appropriate, since this is making them all sweat.
Pivane shakes his head. “I know a better place.”
34 • Una
The knock on the shop door is so quiet, Una barely hears it from upstairs. She has just put a steak on the skillet. Had the skillet been sizzling any louder, she might not have heard the knock. She descends from her upstairs apartment into the luthier shop where she used to apprentice but now runs. As she crosses through the workroom, her bare feet smart from sharp wood shavings on the floor. She continues on through the showroom, where her handmade guitars hang from above like sides of beef.
Pivane is at the door with Lev, Connor, and Grace. She waits for an explanation before inviting them in.
“Something happened,” Pivane tells her. “We need your help.”
“Of course.” She opens the door to allow them entrance.
Sitting on stools in the back room of the shop, Pivane explains the events of the evening. “They need a safe haven,” Pivane tells her.
“It won’t be for long,” Connor says, although he probably has no idea how long it will be. None of them do for sure.
“Please, Una,” says Pivane, holding intense eye contact. “Do our family this favor.”
“Yes, certainly,” says Una, trying to hide the trepidation in her voice. “But if whoever shot at them knows they’re here—”
