But now against the day-lit backdrop of the open glass door, the man’s silhouette was morphing: another head, another arm, another leg, and Vincent grabbed the guy’s wrist from behind, aiming the gun toward the ceiling as he clamped the guy’s mouth with his other hand. A wrench and a twist to break his neck, and Vincent had the gun as the black-clad man fell limp into a stack above his own haunches, and Vincent brought the pistol up two-handed as he turned and shot the next man three times as his dark shape came in off the patio.

God, the noise. Brutal triple-crash of the shots, the sound filling the room, and then a ringing in her ears that seemed electric, like signal overload, like a wire at its limit. Gun smoke in the air and the smell of sweat.

Vincent said something that she couldn’t hear, and then he was moving—gun raised—toward the sliding door. Erin followed him outside, blood from the second man wending through the patio tiles. Seeing Freeman again was even worse, the colours too vivid, and finally it clicked: she had to check upstairs.

He’d told Erin to stay in the bathroom while he cleared the house, but as he stepped outside he heard her following. Then she was gone: running up the garden path. He hissed at her to wait, but she ignored him, still sprinting.

He swore and followed, trying to cover windows with the pistol, and as he neared the crest of the hill, he heard a chirp of rubber. He reached the driveway as the Navigator tore out in reverse onto the street, wheels smoking, Erin running for the entry hall.

Vincent caught up with her as she reached the door, and there was Lamar on his side, blood all over his suit and spreading on the tiles, eyes and mouth open. Across the living room, the picture window was cragged and broken. Blood on the floor: likely Freeman’s. Erin ran to her father, knelt and cradled his head.

‘Dad, Dad, Dad, come on. Dad!’ Patting his cheek and then feeling for a pulse.

Vincent knew he was gone. Too much blood, and he’d seen that vacant look before. Erin kept up the mantra—Dad, Dad, Dad—words soft and half formed as she sobbed.

Vincent used his cell phone to call nine-one-one, gave the address and said there’d been a shooting. The operator told him to keep the line open, but Vincent clicked off and moved into the living room.

In the hallway to his right, he saw Tanner lying dead on his back, shot in the chest. Vincent stepped to the window, a weak breeze humming in the stalactites of glass, and looked down at the yard. The dead man in black lying by his room, blood like red smoke dispersing in the swimming pool. And directly below him: Freeman, looking back.