Ralf stared feverishly at the house, wishing that he could look through those goddamn walls. What if Brian had blown the people’s brains out? Ralf thumped his steering wheel. “Fuck, fuck, fuck . . .”

Suddenly, he realized that if he had heard the shots, then the neighbors would probably be calling the police already. The houses were a fair distance apart, but sound carried a long way.

“Hurry up, bro,” he hissed. “Hurry the fuck up.” Ralf’s legs had started trembling again; his knees tapped against the steering wheel. The muted hip-hop emanating from the speakers suddenly sounded deafeningly loud.

Ralf ripped his flash drive out of the stereo.

He looked back at the house. Not a single door or window opened.

No lights went on or off.

No change.

No Brian.

What the fuck are you doing in there, man?

16

16

As soon as she reached her bag, Helen realized that she was too late. There was no time to dial the emergency number. There was no time for anything.

She turned around and saw the robber charging toward her. In desperation, she pointed the gun at him and gripped the trigger. “Stop, I’ll shoot!” Her voice was high and shrill.

As a nurse, she had learned how to handle mindless aggression. Patients would occasionally become violent out of nowhere, or friends and relatives would suddenly flip out—often due to an underlying medical problem or an adverse reaction to medication, alcohol, or drugs. So far, she had always managed to get through to the attacker and calm them down.

But that was at work.

Not in her own kitchen.

“Shoot, then! Shoot, you dumb bitch!” The robber took a step forward. He was so close to her that she could smell him—sweat, cigarette smoke, and something chemical. His dark eyes were intense; he stared at her like a madman. He paused briefly, then barreled toward her with a yell.

Reflexively, Helen pulled the trigger. Her hand flew upward, as though somebody had kicked it. The bang left her ears whistling.

The intruder wobbled slightly, but recovered and launched himself toward her again, swearing.

“Stay back!” She aimed the gun again, holding it out in front of her with both hands this time. Tears clouded her vision.

He came closer, seeming not to hear.

“Stay back!” With a scream, she pulled the trigger again. And again. The ear-shattering noise reverberated through the kitchen. An acrid smell of gunpowder filled her nostrils.

Horror-struck, she watched the man totter, a look of shock in his eyes, before he collapsed on the kitchen floor. Blood spattered the double doors of the fridge behind him. Sullied the bulletin board hanging next to it—free tickets to a musical, a pamphlet from the pharmacy, letters from school.

Her arms dropped. The pistol felt as heavy as an anvil; her whole body was trembling. Yet her hand remained clenched around the grip. Panting, she stared at the robber.