“What are you doing here?” she asked. “What did you do to my daughter?”

His gaze went from her eyes to the gun in her hand and back. He said nothing.

“That’s not a good answer,” Lauren said. “That makes me think I should just shoot you and let God sort it out.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt her,” he said. His nose had gone off-center, and the blood was all over his mouth and chin. He bent his head and tried to rub it off on the shoulder of his jacket. “I came to keep an eye on her. She panicked. She freaked out. I grabbed her and she pulled away and fell.”

“You’re lying,” Lauren said.

She wanted to look to Leah for dissent, but she didn’t dare turn her attention off Greg Hewitt. She thought Leah must have gotten out of the house. She couldn’t hear her crying, no talking, no ragged breaths.

“And you jumped me because . . . ?”

“I knew you’d assume the worst,” he said. “And I knew you had a gun.”

“You know me too well.”

“I could know you better,” he said, trying to look earnest. “If you’d let me.”

Lauren wanted to laugh. “Do you really think I’m that stupid, Greg? That I’m going to fall for your phony charm?”

Something cold flashed in his eyes. “You liked it well enough when I was fucking you last night.”

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” Lauren said. “What did you want? Money? Did you think you could take Leah and get money from me? Are you that desperate that you’d kidnap my daughter if you couldn’t get me to pay you to kill Ballencoa?”

“You don’t know me, Lauren,” he said.

“I don’t want to,” she said. “Get down on the floor. Facedown. Spread eagle.”

He didn’t move. “What are you going to do?”

“That depends. I can call nine-one-one and have a sheriff’s car here in five minutes. But if my daughter comes in before they arrive, and she tells me something I don’t want to hear, I’ll blow your fucking head off.”

“I’ve only ever tried to help you, Lauren.”

“Get down on the floor,” she said, carefully enunciating each word.

She was astounded at how calm she sounded. She was anything but. Her hands were trembling. Her knees were shaking. She didn’t know what he was playing at or why. She knew she couldn’t trust him. She knew he had hurt her daughter. She had let him into their lives and he had hurt Leah. Her fault.

She still held her left hand curved over the top of the Walther. The end of the jammed cartridge vibrated against her fingertips, reminding her the gun would never fire if she needed it now.