“Adamantly. He maintained it was his right to do what he wanted. And to invite whomever he wanted to his house. And that inflamed Sophia all over again.”

Preston grows quiet. He stares straight ahead, and I wonder if he’s going to go on without being prompted. But he does.

“They argued. And Sophia grew so frustrated, so angry, that she said she was going to leave. She reached for the door handle . . . and I made a mistake. I . . . I grabbed her hand and pulled it back so she couldn’t open the door. I didn’t want her to leave that way, not when we were so close to working things out.” His voice rises a little. “She stopped listening, Connor. She stopped hearing the good sense I was making.”

“She was scared. Two men in the car with her—”

“When I pulled her arm back, she started to fight. Against me. Physically. She started lashing out with her hands.”

“She was terrified,” I say.

“I had to fight her off. She was attacking me. And Lance reached over from the backseat— Connor, at that point, we were doomed, Lance and I. We were fighting with a woman in her car. How does that get explained? To anyone?”

“You should have stopped it. You needed to be the adult, Preston.”

“The scarf was right there on the seat . . . between Sophia and me . . . and I used it.”

“Jesus, Preston . . . how could you?”

“Once it was done, it didn’t matter what happened. It was better to leave her there and let everyone get back to normal. Let the life of the department go on. I just had to trust that Lance would keep his mouth shut. . . . You know how that worked out.”

“It’s over, Preston. Everything is over for you.”

He stares at me, his eyes burning.

He bends down and reaches into the duffel bag.

“What are you doing, Preston?” I ask.

He straightens up, holding a black object in his hand. I think it’s pepper spray or maybe it’s a gun.

Preston flicks his wrist, and the device grows in length. It’s a telescoping self-defense baton, one of those things I’ve seen in movies but never in person. Preston grips it tight, the muscles in his forearms bulging.

He takes two quick, long strides, raising the baton over his head as he moves. With a quick, slicing motion, he swings the baton toward my head. I raise my left arm to ward off the blow.

Something cracks as the baton connects with my forearm. The pain sears up my arm and into my brain. I fall back.

Preston stands over me, the baton raised for another blow.

He swings, and I roll to one side. The baton whistles past my ear and smashes against the carpet. I feel certain my arm is broken. But Preston’s swing has left him off-balance. I press that small advantage.