The woods behind the facility were searched by half a dozen sheriff’s deputies, but they found nothing. In the dirt a few yards from the mouth of the driveway, a Coshocton County deputy discovered fresh tire tread marks that don’t belong to my or Glock’s vehicle, and the CSU technician from BCI proceeded to mix and pour a special plaster that will enable him to scan the image into a computer. From that, an analyst will try to determine the size and type of tire, which, hopefully, will lead us to the manufacturer, the retailer—and ultimately the person who bought it.

During a search, a Coshocton County deputy found two spent .22 caliber cartridges—the same type of cartridge that was found at the scene on County Road 14. We won’t know definitively until ballistics is complete, but I know it’s from the same shooter.

I’ve called Tomasetti twice, but his voice mail picks up both times. I leave two messages, letting him know there was an incident and that I’m all right. This is the kind of situation about which he needs to hear from me personally, but a message is better than nothing.

As the adrenaline wanes and post-incident jitters set in, my hands and legs begin to shake. Not for the first time today, I’m nauseous. My left wrist feels sprained—something I didn’t notice while the paramedics were here and we were cutting up over something I can’t even remember now.

I remind myself that I’m pregnant. That these sorts of things shouldn’t happen to a pregnant woman, and an overwhelming rush of anger toward the shooter engulfs me. I keep my cool; I know what I’m experiencing is part of the process after a traumatic incident. But it’s not easy, and by the time early evening rolls around all I want to do is go home and crawl into bed.

I wasn’t expecting Tomasetti to show up on scene. Last I’d heard, he was at a meeting in Cleveland with some suits. I figured that was why he hadn’t called me back. Little did I know he’d left the meeting and hauled ass down to Coshocton County.

I’m standing on the loading dock, talking to one of the deputies, when I see him come through the door. I’d know his silhouette anywhere. The way he moves. The way he holds himself apart. He’s too far away for me to see his face, but I know it the instant he spots me. His body language changes. He descends the steps and starts toward me with long, resolute strides. I watch him approach, aware that I’m staring, but I can’t look away.

My mouth goes dry. My palms are slick with sweat. I’m aware of my heart thrumming. My legs quivering. “Tomasetti.”