The Bodies Left Behind

nearby: the ones in Graham’s truck, sealed in evidence bags.
    On the second-to-the-bottom step Brynn stopped. The bathroom door was open. No sign of Michelle.
    Go for the truck or not?
    “Tea’ll be ready in just a moment,” Anna called.
    Brynn stepped into the ground-floor hall.
    Just as Michelle walked through an archway four feet away. In her hand was a small black automatic pistol. It was known as a baby Glock.
    Their eyes met.
    As the killer spun toward her, Brynn snagged a picture off the wall, a large family photo, and flung it at her. It missed but as she dodged, Brynn launched herself forward. The women collided hard, both grunting. Brynn fiercely gripped Michelle’s right wrist, digging her short nails into the woman’s skin as hard as she could.
    Michelle cried out, striking Brynn’s head with her free hand.
    The gun discharged once, then, as Michelle lowered it toward the deputy’s body, it fired three times more. All the slugs missed.
    Anna screamed and called for Graham.
    Brynn slammed a fist into Michelle’s face. She blinked in pain and spit flew. Eyebrows narrowed, her mouth a taut grimace, Michelle kicked Brynn’s groin and elbowed her in the belly. But Brynn wasn’t letting go of the gun, nothing could make her do that. The anger of the terrible evening, fueled by this betrayal—and her own gullibility—burned within her. She flailed and kicked and growled the way she had when the wolf approached them in the woods.
    The women grappled, knocking over furniture. Michelle fought furiously—no longer the helpless dilettantein the thousand-dollar boots. She was crazed, fighting for survival.
    The gun fired again. Then several times more. Brynn was counting the rounds. Baby Glocks held ten bullets.
    Another sharp crack—and the weapon was empty, the slide locking back automatically, awaiting a fresh clip of ammunition. The women went down on the floor, Brynn pounding the woman’s head, aiming for her throat. Michelle fought back just as fiercely, though—muscles toned at a health club, if that story was true, and backed by pure desperation.
    Still, there was no doubt in Brynn’s mind that she was going to stop this woman, kill her if she had to, no doubt whatsoever. Using hands and teeth and feet . . . she was pure rage, pure animal.
    You should’ve killed me.  . . .
    Well, this time I won’t make the same mistake.
    Her fingers found Michelle’s throat.
    “Jesus, Brynn—” A man ran through the door and for a tiny portion of a second Brynn thought it was Hart. But by the time she realized it was her husband the distraction had had its effect. Michelle broke free and slammed the gun into Brynn’s wounded cheek. The pain was so intense her vision clouded and she retched.
    Michelle hit the lock on the gun and the receiver snapped shut. Though the gun was empty it appeared loaded and ready to fire. She aimed at Graham. “Keys. To your truck.”
    “What are you—? What?”
    “Emmy, Emmy,” Brynn muttered, clutching her face, clawing futilely at Michelle.
    “I’ll kill her.” Shoving the gun into Brynn’s neck. “The fucking keys!”
    “No, no! Here, take them. Please! Just leave!”
    “Emmy!”
    Michelle grabbed the keys. And ran outside.
    Graham dropped to his knees, pulling his cell phone out, and dialed 911. He cradled Brynn, who pulled away and climbed to her feet. She started to black out, swayed against the stair rail. “Emmy . . .”
    “Who’s Emmy?”
    She forced herself to speak clearly through the pain. “Empty. The gun was empty.”
    “Shit.” Graham ran to the door as his truck skidded down the street and vanished.
    Brynn rose, then heard a soft voice from nearby: “Could somebody—”
    Both Brynn and Graham turned toward the kitchen door, where Anna stood, her hands covered with blood.
    “Please, could somebody . . . Look. Look at this.”
    And she spiraled to the floor.

    ROWS OF ORANGE plastic chairs in the corner of the brightly lit room. Walls and tiles scuffed.
    Graham sat across from Brynn, knees close but not touching. Their eyes were focused mostly on the linoleum and they looked up only from time to time whenthe double doors swung open. But the doctors and employees pushing through them were dealing with matters unrelated to Anna McKenzie’s life.
    Twining her fingers together, Brynn stared at her untouched coffee.
    Sick with horror, sick with exhaustion.
    Her phone quivered. She looked at the screen and muted the ringer,