He stepped back, the gun trained on my head. Behind me was the couch. Chairs all around. An upholstered prison, nowhere to go . . . a run for it would be suicide, leaving Robin to deal with his frustration. . . .

The dog throwing himself, harder . . .

I was upright now. He stepped closer. We came face-to-face. Licorice and rage, lowering the gun and pushing it against my navel. Then up at my throat. Then down again.

Playing.

Choreography.

“I see it,” he said. “Behind your eyes—the fear—you know where you're going, don't you?”

I said nothing.

“Don't you?”

“Where am I going?”

“Straight to hell. One-way ticket.”

The gun nudged my groin. Moved up to my throat again. Pressed against my heart. Back down to my crotch.

Taking on a rhythm—the musician in him . . . moving his hips.

I was altered . . .

Groin. Heart. Groin.

He poked my crotch and laughed. When he raised the gun again, I exploded, chopping the gun wrist with my right hand as I stabbed at his eye with the stiffened fingertips of my left.

The gun fired as he lost balance.

He landed on his side, the gun still laced between his fingers. I stomped on his wrist. His free hand was clamped over his face. When he pulled it free and grabbed at my leg, his eye was shut, bleeding.

I stomped again and again. He roared with pain. The gun hand was limp, but the weapon remained entangled. He struggled to lift it and aim. I dropped my knee full force on his arm, got hold of the hand, tugging, twisting, finally freeing the automatic.

My turn to aim. My hands were numb. I had trouble bending my fingers around the trigger. He slid across the carpet on his back, kicking out randomly, holding his eye. Blood ran over his hand. His escape was blocked by a sofa. Flailing and kicking—he looked at me.

No—behind me.

He screamed, “Do it!” as I ducked and wheeled, facing the hallway.

The smaller gun in my face. A woman's hand behind it. Red nails. Coburg shouting, “Do it! Do it! Do it!” Starting to get up.

I dropped to the floor just as the little gun went off.

More gunshots. Hollow pops, softer than the black pistol's thunder.

Coburg on me. We rolled. I struck out with the black gun and caught the side of his head. He fell back, soundlessly, landed on his back. Not moving.

Where was the silver gun? Arcing toward me again from across the room. Two red-nailed hands starting to squeeze.

I dove behind the couch.

Pop! The fabric puckered and gobbets of stuffing flew inches from my face.

I pressed myself flush to the marble.

Pop! Pop, pop!

Heavy breathing—gasping—but whose I couldn't tell.

Pop!

A dull noise from my back, then the windchime song of shattered glass. Scampering feet.

A small, black blur raced past me toward Meredith.