focus was allowable, but no more than that. She was not pregnant, and no matter how protective Boone was feeling, she was going back to work down at that club tomorrow evening.
She had her dead to ahvenge. And sitting around and being weepy and ridiculous was not going to serve that larger purpose.
Reaching into the pocket of her sweatshirt, she took out her phone. She had silenced the ringer because she’d needed time to get her head straight—which had evidently translated into her getting her living quarters straight.
As she turned the unit over, she braced herself to see a bunch of notifications that Boone had called or texted, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Part of her wanted to talk to him. Part of her didn’t—
No calls from him. No texts, either.
Staring at the blank screen, she was struck by a hollow ache in her chest. But what could she expect? She’d wanted space.
He was giving it to her.
The following evening, Helania leveled the muzzle of her ninemillimeter at a target far down the gun range. She was in shooting dock 4, ear protection on, an open box of bullets on the counter in front of her, an empty one on the concrete ground by her feet.
Focusing on the center of the bull’s-eye—which radiated out from the outline of a torso—she steadied her arms in front of her and squeezed off one . . . two . . . three . . . fourfivesix—
“—closing in fifteen minutes. We are closing in fifteen minutes. Please begin to pack up now.”
Lowering the gun, she hit the switch on the cubicle’s wall, and the target rushed to her like a dog called home, its bottom bending back against the draft created by the speed. When the heavy paper was in front of her, she unclipped it and stared at the holes she had made.
All of them were concentrated in the center of the concentric circles, off by only one ring . . . two at the most.
“You’re damn good with a gun.”
As she looked over at the attendant who’d approached her, she marveled once again at how the mufflers on her ears managed to dim the gunshots while allowing voices to come through.
Stripping off her ear protection, she said, “I’m okay.”
“Better than most.”
She smiled because she felt like she had to, and actually, she had nothing against the guy. He was the nice older one who wore a US Veteran hat and always had on some kind of concert T-shirt from the eighties. With baggy blue jeans and a weathered face that had her thinking he was in his late sixties, early seventies, he looked like he was well familiar with manual labor, long hours, and AC/DC.
“You want me to walk you to your car?” he said. “It’s late.”
“I’ll be all right, but thank you.”
“Keep your gun loaded and out. I’ll watch you on the monitor like I always do. Nice girl like you, I’m glad you know how to shoot.”
With a curt nod, he limped back down the lineup of vacant docks. She was pretty sure he was missing one leg and had a prosthetic, but she hadn’t asked. And she did appreciate his concern for her. Usually.
Tonight, it made her uncomfortable, although not because she was threatened by him in any way. She just wondered why she got special attention. Was it because he sensed a weakness in her?
Somehow, she didn’t want that question to be answered. Inner strength was very important to her all of a sudden.
Holstering her gun at her hip, she packed up the unused shot in her nylon bag, threw out the empty box of bullets, and pulled her parka on. On her way to the exit, she went by the glassed-in kiosk where the attendant sat and waved at him. He pointed to a grainy black-and-white TV that sported an image of the parking lot and gave her a thumbs-up. She nodded in return.
Outside, she walked over to a ten-year-old Toyota truck. She and Isobel had bought the thing new by pooling their savings. Though they could always dematerialize places, vehicles—especially those with a flatbed—were really handy for big shops, when you were moving, and on those rare occasions when you simply felt like driving somewhere.
As she got behind the wheel, she hit the clutch, put the gearshift in neutral, and started the engine. Out on the road, she headed for home . . . and wondered whether she was going to end