“Fucking bitch cop!” Kester pounds up the steps behind me. “I ain’t going to jail ’cause of you!”

A gunshot snaps through the air. A hollow thunk! sounds as the bullet tears into the sheetrock to my right. Then I’m through the bedroom door, slam it behind me, slap the lock into place. Two steps, and I yank my .38 from the holster. Revolver trained on the door, I back toward the bench at the foot of the bed and snatch up my police radio. “Ten-thirty-one E!” I shout out my address. “Shots fired! Ten-forty!”

In a fraction of a second, Skid’s voice snaps over the radio. “Ten-seven-six.”

“Stand by,” comes Mona’s voice.

“Kester, I’m armed!” I scream. “You come through that door and I will fucking shoot you!”

“You got an ID?” Skid asks.

“Nick Kester,” I pant. “He’s armed with a handgun.”

“Fuckin’ MUTT!” Over the radio I hear the groan of his cruiser’s engine as he cranks it up. “ETA two minutes. Hang tight.”

“SO’s en route,” says Mona.

Never taking my eyes from the door, keeping the pistol leveled and ready, I back up and kneel beside the bed. I know it won’t stop a bullet; the best I can hope for is that it will buy me a few seconds. If he comes through the door, I’ll open fire until he stops moving.

“Anyone hurt?” Mona asks.

“No.”

“Ten-twenty-three.” Skid, letting me know he’s arrived on scene. “Where’s he at?”

“I don’t know. Second level maybe. Be careful.”

Holding my breath, I listen for movement in the hall. The only sounds come from the rain tapping against the window and the distant wail of sirens. I leave my position behind the bed and go right to avoid approaching the door directly in case Kester fires through it. I sidle along the wall and pause at the dresser.

“Nick Kester!” I shout. “The police are out front! Drop your weapon! Do it now!”

No response.

I wonder if his wife is with him. If she’s somewhere in the house or sitting in a vehicle waiting for him.

I ain’t going to jail ’cause of you!

And I realize he knows I had nothing to do with his daughter’s death.…

Around me, the house is quiet. The silence unsettles me. Where’s Kester? Where’s Skid? My heart is pounding too hard. My hands are shaking. I edge around the dresser, set my left hand on the knob. A quick twist, and I swing open the door.

“Police!” I scream. “Drop the weapon! Get your hands up! Get on the fucking ground!”

A door slams somewhere downstairs. I can’t tell if it’s the front or the back. I don’t know if it’s Kester fleeing—or one of my own making entry.

“Skid!” I shout.

“I’m in the kitchen!” Skid’s voice sounds from downstairs.