Page 28 of The Final Cut

“You’re shaking.”

“Great observational skills.”

“You will follow safety rules,” Nash says. His tone could carve stone. “Or we find another way for you to break things.”

For a second I think she’ll throw the nearest plate at his head, which I think has real merit. Instead, she pulls in a breath through her nose and looks away.

“I’ll follow the rules.”

The agreement costs her. I see it in her jaw.

I carry the crate. Ever collects ear protection from a cabinet hidden behind a smooth panel near the back door. Nash retrieves a locked metal case and keys in a code. I watch Reva watch him. She is cataloging every lock, every hidden compartment, every secret she can.

Outside, the marsh air wraps around us warm and damp.

The range sits behind the cabin, tucked between a wall of cypress and a raised berm that blends into the landscape until the lights come on. Ever triggers them from his phone. Low amber strips cut along the ground, and targets stand at different distances, most folded flat. We won’t use the paper tonight. No silhouettes shaped like bodies.

I set Aunt Mildred’s china on a weatherproof bench and start lining plates along a rail about ten yards out. A saucer with pink roses. A teacup with gold trim. One little gravy boat with the face of a smug Victorian cherub.

“This one looks judgmental,” I call back.

“It was probably her favorite,” Nash says.

“I’ll put it in the middle.”

Reva watches with her arms wrapped around herself, rubber bands stark against one wrist. Ever hands her the ear protection, and she puts it on, then looks at the gun in Nash’s hand.

The pistol is compact enough for her grip, heavy enough to remind her it matters. Nash checks it, then hands it to me. I check it too, because trust is healthy and bullets are not philosophical.

I turn to Reva.

“Before you touch it, rules.”

“I know how guns work. I shot one earlier.” Her voice cracks.

“Humor me.” I keep my voice light and my eyes steady.

Her mouth tightens, but she nods.

“Muzzle stays downrange. Finger off the trigger until you’re ready. If you want to stop, you stop. If one of us says stop, you stop. You don’t turn with it. You don’t wave it around because one of us says something charming and deserves murder.”

“You always deserve murder.”

“That’s why the rule made the list.”

Her eyes hold mine for one beat longer than the joke requires; then she reaches for the gun.

I place it in her hands and fold her fingers around the grip. Her skin is cold. The tremor starts in her wrists and travels up her arms, fine and relentless. She can’t stand that I feel it. I know because her chin lifts.

I step beside her instead of behind her at first. “Two hands. Lock your wrists less than you think. You’re fighting the gun before it’s done anything.”

“I’m angry.”

“I noticed.”

“I don’t want to be calm.”

“Not trying to calm you. Just help you aim.”