She feels cold again now. There’s a strong instinct to raise her hand and rub it over her shorn head, but she refuses to let Gutmunsson influence her even that much.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Bell’s shoulder beside her radiates warmth through his shirt. It’s the only warm spot in the whole damn room, so she can’t even resent it.

“No. He probably just put that in there to yank my chain. It would be very on point for him.” She snorts, annoyed with herself for reacting. “God, what an asshole.”

Bell puts the blue pages back into their folder, slaps the folder shut, looking as if he’s had about as much as he can stand. He closes the case file, too, stacks everything together, and sets it aside. “Okay, I’m done.”

“You’re done?”

“Yep. For now. And you are, too.”

“We haven’t talked about—”

“Lewis, you can sit here until steam comes out your ears, trying to make this mess of information line up, or you can step back and give your brain a chance to work things over. I like to keep busy.” Bell gets up and pushes in his chair, everything about him decisive. “I’m gonna go shoot something. Wanna come along?”

Emma wonders if it’s a particularly male reaction, the urge to hit or shoot something when you get angry. But then, she’s been known to hit things herself on occasion. “Where do you shoot something around here?”

“There’s an outside range and an inside range. And it’s raining outside, so…”

The idea is intriguing. She stands up, curious to see where it’s all going. “You really want me to come shooting with you?”

“Hell yeah. I mean, Cooper said we’d get instructional basics, right? So we’re just getting a head start. You got experience with firearms?”

“A rifle, yeah. Or a captive bolt. My parents run dairy cattle.”

“Handguns?”

“Never.”

“Then now’s a great time to learn. Come on.”

Bell whips his jacket off the back of his chair, ushers them both out of the office—or the Cool Room, if you like, Emma thinks. They have to take the elevator up one floor and walk past an area where National Academy students are practicing tactical entry drills. Emma hears students yelling, feels the impact of doors slamming open like a series of thuds in the base of her spine.

Bell checks them both in to the range. The range master is a craggy-faced former Marine sergeant named Hagland who helps them sign for weapons and ammunition. Emma opens the air lock door for Bell, who’s carrying the equipment, then works the next door into the high-noise area.

Bell hangs his jacket and lays everything on the shelf in the stall. “Okay, this isn’t a full field kit. Normally you’d practice with a gun belt and a holster, work out how to manage a speedloader, stuff like that.”

“Right.” Emma looks at the box of ammunition, the safety glasses and earmuffs. The two snub-nosed revolvers, the metal rubbed to a dull patina. Her father hunts deer during the season, shoots foxes on the farm. This feels different.