“An accident.” It worked the mop back and forth. She could tell, not because she saw the mop moving, but because she sensed a repetitive change in the air molecules. “Nate and I were supposed to have a civil conversation, but I suppose I got a bit worked up, and he became drunk and aggressive. He pulled the gun on me.”

Melissa hadn’t witnessed how the weapon had entered the picture. When she’d joined the scene, It had been standing over what had been left of Nate. The gory image had seemed like horror movie special effects, so much so that she hadn’t even screamed. She’d simply watched It clean off the gun with an antibacterial wipe and place it in her husband’s hand.

She hadn’t even thought to run until it was too late. By then, It had been gripping her arm and pulling her from the house, warning her that she didn’t want Ava to come downstairs, promising that everything could be explained and a rational solution developed. Next thing, she’d been in Its car, a gun at her side telling her to drive, not to make any sudden movements, and then ordering her out of the vehicle.

She’d started screaming then. You killed him. You murdered him. In response, It had pointed the gun and ordered her into this hole. Instructing her to take time to calm down.

She was no more relaxed than she’d been when It had first shut the door. If anything, she was wilder, a dog made mean by abuse. Without light, she’d grown comfortable with her own darkness.

“I was defending myself,” It continued.

Melissa had imagined every director’s cut of the missing footage, picturing how Nate would have found himself on the other end of the barrel of his gun—really her gun, as it had been used as a prop in her big film and then gifted to her as a memento. She guessed that It could have asked Nate to put the weapon down and then, after he had, grabbed the thing. Or maybe It could have stolen the weapon in a scuffle. Nate, having never intended to really shoot, wouldn’t have known what to do. Her husband had always been full of bravado and bluster. He’d liked to imagine his life a movie in which he nabbed all the main parts. Loving husband and father. Hefner-esque playboy. Mobster Capo. But Nate wasn’t a real actor. He could never become the character.

The moment the gun had come out, Nate’s time was over. It had responded with genuine fear and desire for self-preservation. Nate, faking his way through, had never stood a chance.

“He wouldn’t have shot you,” she said.

“You don’t know that. When a man points a gun at your chest, you should expect him to mean business,” It countered. “I reacted.”