“The television, the gaming console, everything belongs to Morris,” she said. “Even the furniture. He wouldn’t have wanted the guitar. He’d probably have smashed it because he knew it was something I loved. He didn’t like my grandfather.”

“He may have changed,” Banks repeated.

“He threatened to kill Darrell Tarley for prosecuting him,” she said simply. “If he’s reformed, why did he tell that to his cellmate? He also told him that I was on his retribution list. That isn’t surprising. He’s spent five years in prison on my testimony. He gets even with people.”

“He’s not getting even with you,” he said shortly. “No matter what it takes.” He went back to his desk, unlocked a side drawer and pulled out an automatic weapon in a holster. He locked the drawer back and handed the gun to Clancey. “Can you shoot one of these?”

She drew in a breath. The gun was heavy and she hated the whole idea of it. “I can’t shoot anybody, Mr. Banks. Not even to save my own life.”

“How about to save Tad’s life?” he returned curtly.

She looked up at him with terror in her silver eyes.

He grimaced. “I didn’t mean to put it that brutally. You can call the police. But there are times when you don’t get the opportunity. A good many men who attack will do it in a blitz style, to circumvent any self-defense. In that case, a pistol might make the difference between living and dying.”

She looked at the gun blankly.

“Grace hates the very idea of weapons,” he remarked heavily.

She lifted her eyes to his. “It’s a tool of your trade,” she said simply. “Part of your uniform. You use it to protect the helpless. Why should it be hateful to anyone?”

He felt those soft words to the soles of his boots. She made things sound so simple. She wasn’t judgmental. She wasn’t overbearing about her attitudes. The contrast with Grace, with his long-lost love, was painful.

She averted her gaze. He was looking at her in an odd, intent way that made her heart race. She stared at the gun. “I don’t have a concealed carry permit,” she said.

“Go down to the sheriff’s department and get one,” he returned.

She sighed. There was no arguing with him. “What am I supposed to do with it in the meantime, strap it around my waist?” she asked out loud.

He chuckled in spite of himself. “Wouldn’t that look interesting? People would think working in this office was dangerous if the administrative assistant had to go armed.”

She smiled back.

He frowned. “Our special deputy who shot himself in the foot,” he said, recalling an incident from weeks ago. “What did he do?”