Heartbreak Bay (Stillhouse Lake #5) - Rachel Caine Page 0,38

she’s advising some of the things she does. But the feral-animal part of me, the part that never quite goes away . . . that part wants Connor to learn to shoot properly. Because my son will always be at risk, given who I am. Who his father was. Who he is. The future’s coming at us fast. I just want to reset the clock. Slow it all down.

I hate it when I feel this tug-of-war inside me. I like clarity. Certainty. And I know I will almost never have it when it comes to the best thing to do for my kids.

Lanny and Connor are both looking at me. So’s Sam. His is the hardest expression to read; he’s going to let me make this call without weighing in. Lanny’s wanting me to tell Connor no, of course; she’s only recently won the right to learn to shoot, and the last thing she wants is to lose that special status. But Lanny hasn’t been through the same things Connor has, especially back in that grim compound at Bitter Falls. I lock gazes with my son and say, “Fine. We’ll all go to the gun range. But you need to understand: if you start to feel uncomfortable, even a little, you tell me or Sam, and we will get you out of there. All right?”

He nods, and I see tension ease out of him. Sam’s still watching me, and when I transfer my attention back to him, he nods once and digs into his salad.

Lanny drops her fork. Loudly. She sits back in her chair with her arms folded. “Wow. Really. Not even a discussion?”

“Not even,” Connor says. He’s way too smug about it. “What? You don’t think I can handle it?”

“Like I worry about you at all.” Lanny shoves her chair back from the table and leaves. I hear her door slam.

“That was mature,” Connor says. When I start to slide my chair away from the table, he rolls his eyes. “No, Mom, don’t go talk to her. She’ll be okay. Trust me. She’s just pissed off at me.”

“Just because of the gun range? Or something else?”

He shrugs, gaze on his food, and I know there’s more to it, but sometimes the kids need to work it out without me in the middle. I just shake my head and finish my pizza. We wrap up Lanny’s last slice and put it in the fridge.

Sure enough, she shows up when we’re loading the car for the trip to the range. I say hello, she silently takes the back seat, arms folded, face a stone mask. It’s unsettling, because I can see the shadow of the adult she’s becoming. There’s nothing dramatic about her just now. She’s centered, even in her disapproval.

Please stay my baby. Just a little while longer. Please.

Connor, oblivious, calls shotgun, which leaves Sam to slide into the back next to Lanny. When Connor and I get in the front, I check my daughter in the rearview mirror. Sam’s leaning over and asking her something in a calm, quiet voice; I see her lose a little of her stiffness as she answers. He puts his arm around her in a half hug.

And just like that, she’s okay. It breaks my heart that I don’t know how to do that anymore with her, make it all . . . fine. We sometimes clash like mismatched gears, my daughter and me. I know that’s normal, but it feels like failure, and it makes me want desperately to make it right.

Vee’s waiting at the curb when I pull the SUV in, and Sam gets out to let her in to sit between him and Lanny. She climbs in encumbered with a battered old black satchel, and she seems wired, as usual. “Cool, cool, cool,” she says, and wiggles in the seat as she gets comfortable. “This is going to be fun! Hey, Lantagirl.”

“Hey,” Lanny says. She’s relaxed a little in Vee’s presence, at least. “What’s in the bag?”

Vee reaches in and pulls out a far-too-large-for-her semiautomatic. I feel a kick start of urgent, wild adrenaline. A nightmare lurches into motion in my brain. I imagine Vee’s finger tightening on that trigger, a bullet firing through the seat, my son bleeding.

“Drop it!” Sam’s shout is sudden and shocking in the confines of the SUV, and she puts the gun down on top of the satchel and raises her hands high. “Jesus, Vee. Never do that.” He takes the gun, carefully pointing it