I dropped my head, but something he said sent my mind spinning. The miners died six months ago. I had thought all the deaths were directly related to the mine’s discovery, but if that wasn’t an issue . . .

“Now, Darby, about you.”

I closed my eyes. Heavenly Father, forgive me—

Crack!

I jumped. The sound hurt my ears. Was I dead? Or . . .

Opening my eyes, I reached for Bram and looked up.

Roy stood outlined by the fire, Bram’s Glock in hand. Behind him stood Grace, two of the Polish ladies, and Cookie.

Sam sprawled on the ground, motionless.

“Snake.” Roy spit at him.

I wanted to scream, cry, pray, vomit. I remained motionless until the waves of emotion passed. When again I could get control of myself, I helped Bram to a seated position leaning against a tree stump.

Was it over? Really over? I pushed to my feet and hopped over to Sam’s body. I knew everyone would stare at me, at my missing limb. I didn’t care.

Sam’s partially open eyes stared at eternity.

The pistol Sam pointed at me was the same kind of weapon I’d owned, the last gun I’d touched since the shootout five years ago. A Sig Sauer 9mm. I reached for it, hesitated, then picked it up.

A memory opened. I gasped. A memory, not a flashback. I remembered grabbing the gun from the glove box. I’d thought something was wrong. Wrong with the gun.

Jim had been talking to the serial killer. I was supposed to cover my husband. I’d sighted in on the man’s head, but I didn’t shoot. My brain had kept pounding out, Terribly wrong.

“Now, Darby. Shoot now!” Jim had screamed.

The killer had fired. Jim had dropped to the ground.

I had run. I hadn’t taken the shot. I’m a coward.

A heaviness settled in my chest. I’d failed to correctly interpret the killer’s letters, lost my husband and baby, and finally lost my leg, all because . . . I shook my head.

No. Something else. The gun. I kept coming back to the gun. My flashbacks and dreams had returned to the Sig Sauer. Why hadn’t I pulled the trigger?

I looked down at the weapon in my hand. Could it be? I turned my back to Roy and the staff, then ejected the gun’s magazine. No bullets. Just like my gun five years ago.

I’d known then that the gun’s weight was off. I knew that weapon, handled it every day. In the mind-numbing terror of that day, I’d known something was wrong but couldn’t figure out what. When I’d been discovered by that group of teens, they took my purse and the weapons. I remembered their voices.

“Hey, Matt, Chris, come over here! This is cool. A body!”

“Naaa, really? Awesome!”

“Whatcha think we shood do?”