She’s looking up at the blue sky, some palm tree fronds, and she thinks, Well, good planning. Earlier she stopped to get her hair closely trimmed to disguise herself, and to purchase a Remington 12-gauge pump-action shotgun, because she no longer trusted anyone in this screwy case, and Amy Cornwall had taken her pistol back at the library.

But maybe she should have gotten a bulletproof vest.

That would have made sense.

She moans.

Jesus, is her chest ever going to stop hurting?

Tom Cornwall is moving toward where he last saw the Yukon driving away, with his wife, Amy, in full pursuit, when he hears Amy yelling, “Denise, Denise,” and then gunshots, and then a full-throated scream from his wife.

He starts running harder.

I’m sobbing, yelling, and I feel like I’m going to lose control of my bladder and bowels as I approach the still form of my little girl.

Oh, Denise.

I drop to my knees, scraping them hard, and my girl’s head is blackened and there’s blood, and I can’t see anymore, I’m crying so very, very hard.

Denise!

I reach down and touch my little girl.

And—

“Mommy?”

I break out in one more loud sob.

She’s sitting up, rubbing at the side of her face.

“Mommy…my ear hurts. It hurts a lot.”

I grab her and squeeze her hard, and if I could, I wouldn’t move for the rest of the week.

She says, “Oh, Mommy, you’re squeezing me too hard!”

I ignore her, refuse to let her go.

CHAPTER 88

CHAPTER 88

IT HURTS too much to do anything, including keeping her eyes open, and then there’s a dim voice above her.

“Special Agent Vasquez? Can you hear me?”

Rosaria manages to get her right eye open. It sort of focuses in, and there’s a woman looking down at her, wearing a skimpy bathing suit.

“Yeah, I can hear you,” she says. “Who…Captain Cornwall, is that you?”

“Yes, yes,” and now the captain is holding her left hand.

“Damn, girl, why are you in a bathing suit?”

Her hand is squeezed. “A long story, Vasquez.”

“Then save it for later.”

I’m holding Special Agent Vasquez’s left hand, and my other arm is tight around my brave little girl, Denise, who isn’t sobbing but who’s running a hand over and over her scorched hair, near where the muzzle blast of that man’s pistol had passed through.

Sirens are in the distance, and there’s a circle of people watching us, lots using their cell phones to record this horrible scene.

Tom races up, clothes bloody, and he kneels down next to me, starts squeezing Denise as well.

We’re finally together.

“Vasquez,” I say. “Why did you do it? Why did you come here?”