Sumner swung the gun away from Misty, away from me, and pointed the barrel at the back door.

“Sumner, what are you doing?” Merit’s voice was sharp. “You’ll shoot someone.”

Blue crate? I waited for a snarky remark, but the blue crate remained silent.

I returned to my original—my only—plan.

I ran at Sumner, wrapped my arms around her waist, and tackled her to the ground in a cloud of choking dust.

The shotgun blast was deafening, and my head threatened to split in two. Like Zeus’s, but without birthing Athena.

Sumner struggled. Hard.

I reared up, brought back my arm, and hit her as hard as I could. The impact traveled from my fist to my shoulder, and my knuckles screamed in pain.

In a perfect world, Sumner would have gone limp or passed out or cried, “Uncle.”

The world wasn’t perfect. Not even close.

Sumner slapped me.

She spit.

She curled her fingers into talons and clawed at my skin.

I coughed on the thick dust as sweat poured down my forehead and into my eyes.

Bear joined the melee.

He barked.

He snapped.

He closed his jaws around the gun and dragged it from Sumner’s hands.

Sumner's hand met my cheek in another slap, and the sting brought tears to my eyes.

My fist met her nose and something—cartilage or bone—cracked. Blood covered her face, and my hand, and our chests.

If Mother could only see me now.

A hand closed around my upper arm, but I wrenched free.

“Easy, Ellison,” said Sheriff Bascom. “It’s me.”

The fight drained out of me and I slumped to the ground. Or, more accurately, the dirt.

“Are you hurt?” he demanded.

“Sumner confessed. She killed them both.”

“Are you hurt?” he repeated.

“I’m not sure.” I turned toward the van. “Where’s Misty?”

“She’s fine, but her van will need a new tire.”

“Mrs. Jones.” Randy lifted me off the ground. “Let me help you. Let’s get you inside, get you a cool drink.”

“And aspirin?”

He frowned his concern. “Did you hit your head?

“My headache started before the fight.”

“I’ll get you aspirin,” he promised. Then he led me inside.

I collapsed onto a chair and rested my aching head on the kitchen table.

Bear sat next to me and rested his chin on my lap.

“Here.” Randy pressed a glass into my hand. “Drink slowly.”

“Look who's back,” said the blue crate. “You didn’t die. Surprise, surprise.”

I narrowed my eyes and glared at the blue crate. He deserved dirty looks. He was a jerk.

“Mrs. Jones?”

I lifted my head.

“You need to drink.”

I took a sip of ice water. It tasted like ambrosia.

“Slowly,” Randy warned. “I think you might be dehydrated.”

I was definitely dehydrated. It was the only explanation for the talking crates. “What’s happening outside?”