At a hundred feet, I could see an eight-by-ten window that looked out from the art room onto the back lawn of the school.

I put the binocs to my face, and the art space came in clear.

The room was large, with students’ paintings covering every wall. Four black industrial work tables were spread throughout. High tops with stools around them. But no one sat at the stools.

I scanned left and counted. One, two, three students. All girls, twelve or thirteen, in white blouses and blue-and-red plaid skirts. They huddled in one corner; at the front of the group, my boss’s daughter. To her right was a brunette in her thirties, the art teacher presumably.

I saw the injured teacher too, but the shot he’d taken wasn’t to the stomach. It was to the chest, and his blood had soaked through a pile of white smocks until they were brick red.

He was dead.

The shooter himself was white and stood near the teacher, close to the window.

Six foot tall and midthirties, Jed Harrington had a face the shape of an egg and sunburnt skin. He was handsome in a rugged way and wore a green-checkered flannel, faded jeans, and hiking boots. He looked more like a dad bringing his kid’s forgotten permission slip to school.

My cell buzzed, and I slid it close to my ear. I was lying prone, on my stomach, with the shotgun laid out in front of me. I held the binocs with my free hand.

“You’re not gonna believe what I can see from here,” I said to Remy.

No sound came back at first, so I pulled the phone up and glanced at the screen. The number was blocked.

“Good afternoon, Detective Marsh,” a man’s voice came back.

A voice I knew.

The man on the other end was the highest-ranking public official in the state of Georgia, a man named Toby Monroe. Governor Monroe to folks who saw him on the news or punched his name at the ballot box.

“I assume you’re at this scene?” Monroe said. “The one I’m watching on TV?”

“I am.”

“Thank God,” Monroe said. “Someone I can trust.”

But the governor and I didn’t have what I’d call a trusting relationship. Ours was one in which favors were traded. And I was in arrears—owing him a big one.

“What do you need?” I asked.

“I’m calling to expedite anything you need,” he said. “To make sure no children are hurt at that school.”

My eyes tracked the gunman, pacing near the window.

I hadn’t seen his weapon yet, but the man’s left hand was below the sill. Was he a lefty? Or had he put the weapon down?

“No children have been hurt,” I said.

“So let’s keep it that way,” Monroe replied. “From what I hear-tell, your job in an active shooter situation is to take out the gunman. No questions asked.”

The governor’s voice could shift from sophisticated to down-home in a flash. A politician’s trick.