In May, the governor had supplied me with the name and address of a man who I’d been searching for. A man who’d run my wife and son off the road two years ago. Who’d killed them.

In exchange for that information, he told me that he’d call at some point—for a no-questions-asked favor. And I’d agreed.

I stared across at the gunman.

“I’m not gonna make you do this,” Monroe said, his voice calming again. “But I think every parent in the state would breathe a sigh of relief if you took out that killer.”

I hesitated.

I’d read that Monroe was only one point ahead in the polls. One point ahead of an unknown competitor was a narrow margin for an incumbent governor. If a school shooting went bad, he might fall ten points behind.

“Just know that if you pull that trigger,” he said, “you and I are square. All debts settled.”

The phone went dead then, and I put my cell down. Focused on the art room.

The teacher said something to the gunman, and Harrington shook his head at her—vehemently, from left to right.

He grabbed the teacher by the shoulders then and swiveled her in my direction, staring out the window.

Had the gunman seen me?

I stayed completely still. Found Jed Harrington in the center of the Remington’s scope and waited. He held his weapon to the woman’s neck, and I confirmed it was a .38.

The gunman moved closer to the window, dragging the art teacher in front of him. He was forty yards away. Fifty at most.

Slowly, I chambered a slug. Found the release lever and pulled back on the action, pumping the gun to the ready.

The teacher wriggled free from the man’s grasp, and he let her go. Then he glanced out at the forest, his .38 resting against the glass.

It was a moment of calm. Was he reflecting on something? Still searching for some movement?

I’d spent the last decade of my life trying to understand the machinations of the criminal mind. Why they take the risks that others don’t. Their carelessness with the things that I hold dear. And the truth was that my understanding hadn’t grown deeper. In the end, they just made me doubt the existence of a higher power.

My walkie came alive with Remy’s voice.

“P.T.,” she said, “phone line’s ready to get walked over.”

I stared at the gunman, my index finger resting against the trigger and then drifting away. Hesitating. Shaking.

The Remington 870P isn’t a long-distance weapon. It’s a short-stock shotgun that’s great for clearing a house and hard for bad guys to pull out of a cop’s hand. Still, when hunting, I’ve found that a twelve-gauge can be effective to about eighty yards. Twice this distance.

I eyed the red dot on the Remington and found the gunman.

Harrington had killed one teacher already.

And as I watched, he turned back toward the girls and the art teacher, his Smith & Wesson in hand. Held out in their direction.