Chapter 11: The Shot

Water dripped somewhere above the car.

My hand was already on the door handle.

"Tell me all of it," I said.

"Or I get out here and walk."

"I'll tell you."

His voice was low and steady.

"I didn't tell you the rest."

"The man turned."

"He used your father like a shield."

"I had a half second."

"I saw the shape of the man's head over your father's shoulder, and I fired."

"I thought I had a clean line."

I said nothing.

"It was dark," he said.

"He'd turned your father again as I pulled the trigger."

"The bullet went in your father's chest."

"The man dropped him and ran."

"And you chased him."

"Your father looked up at me from the floor."

"He had blood on his mouth."

"He said, 'Go.'"

"He said, 'Get him.'"

I heard the break in his voice.

"I should have stayed."

"I went."

"I left him on the floor, and when I got back you had your hands on him, and he said my name to you."

"He said your name," I said, "because he was telling me you did it."

"Or because he forgave me."

"You don't know that."

"No."

I hit him.

I swung with my open hand across the front seat, aiming by his voice, and it landed on his cheekbone with a crack that hurt my palm.

He didn't move.

I hit him again.

Then I hit his chest with my fist, three times, four, and he sat there and took it.

"My father is dead because you couldn't wait one second for a clear shot."

"I slept with the man who shot him."

"I told a room full of people you were innocent."

"I know."

"You let me."

"I know."

My hand went into my coat pocket.

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