Escape wasn’t on my mind anyway. I had a gun, and I wasn’t letting Bianca’s killer walk away.

I slammed the door behind me. Then I ducked and ran around the bar. A flash of light told me the gunman had opened the hall door. I dropped to the floor and gripped the gun. When I closed my eyes, I could feel his vibes, not anger but anxiety, his thoughts a mental loop of “Shit, where’d she go?”

My target was in place. All I had to do was peek over the bar, raise the gun and shoot him. At the thought, my heart tripped faster, but not from excitement.

I’d never killed anyone.

I could have laughed at the thought, almost a guilty admission, like saying I’d never driven a car. In the normal world, not having killed people is a perfectly acceptable “missed life experience.” Desirable, in fact. But in the supernatural world, at least in the type of work I did, it’s a given that at some point it will come down to kill or be killed.

Karl told me once that he couldn’t remember the faces of every man he’d killed. It wasn’t that there were scores of them, but enough that they no longer stood clear in his mind. He hadn’t said it with regret, but nor had he been bragging. He was simply making a thoughtful statement during a discussion of risk and death in the supernatural world.

I could look on this the same way: kill or be killed. But was I in danger? The gunman hadn’t fired at me in the hall. Now he wasn’t putting out any vibes of anger or threat.

Could I justify leaping from behind the bar, gun blazing, taking down a stranger who hadn’t made a move on me?

Still crouching, I retreated into the shadowy corner between the bar and the wall, my back protected, gun raised. I wasn’t letting him walk out of here. He had answers, and Karl could get them from him.

While it would be nice to take the gunman down alone, I stood a better chance of success if Karl helped. I reached for my panic button, then stopped. Push it and Karl would come running—into a room with an armed killer.

I flipped open my phone and began a text message. I got as far as “bar gunman” when a rubber sole squeaked on the floor. I glanced at the glowing cell phone, shut it quickly, then scrunched back against the wall.

I was too exposed. I saw that now. I was relying on dim lighting, a shadowy corner and dark clothing, which was fine for a casual glance, but if he walked around that bar, searching, he’d see me. To get to either exit, he had to walk around the bar.