Heartbreak Bay (Stillhouse Lake #5) - Rachel Caine Page 0,40

on my face. I watch the traffic on the street, a river of metal and lights. I’m facing it down, the beast that comes for me out of the back of my mind. And it always, always has Melvin’s face.

Behind me, Sam says, “Gwen? You coming?” He says it gently, as if he understands, though I don’t know how he could.

“Yes,” I say, and I turn my back on my instincts and go to teach my kids—even Vee—how to properly handle a weapon that I pray they never need.

Connor does better than I could have imagined. He barely flinches at the sound of the shots. He’s steady and deliberate when I teach him proper arm position and stance. When he finally fires his first shot, he hits the target. Not dead center, of course, but in the ballpark. Most kids would celebrate that, but not my son. He looks at the target critically, makes the gun safe, and puts it down as if he’s been doing this his whole life. “I missed,” he says.

“You didn’t. It’s on the outline.”

“It wouldn’t stop him,” Connor says. Just that, and it tells me everything about my son and what his attitude will be toward guns. He’s not in this for sport, or fun, or excitement like the teens who are squealing and clapping in other lanes as they even come close to a good shot. Like it is for me, this is survival for him. Pure, simple survival.

I hate it. I mourn for what it says about how bleak his world seems to him. How inevitable it is that he’s going to need this skill, a thing he doesn’t want but will not flinch at learning.

My son is so brave it steals my breath.

I put my hand on his shoulder, and while he doesn’t pull away, I still feel the muscles tighten. Guarding. That’s another heartbreak for me as his mom, the knowledge that my touch can’t soothe away the pain anymore. That it might, in fact, add to it. I have to let that strike me and fade before I can master my voice to something like normal. “You’ll get better,” I tell him. “But let’s stop there for tonight, okay?” I check my watch; it’s been an hour and a half. Lanny looks incandescent with victory over her accuracy, and she and Vee share a high five while Sam looks on, shaking his head. I show Connor how to stow the gun properly in the case, then have him sit with the girls on a bench in the back as Sam and I take a quick turn in adjoining lanes.

Shooting feels like freedom to me. The world goes quiet inside my head—even the constant racket that soundproofing ear protection can’t quell. Everything narrows to me, the target, the weight of the gun in my hand. There’s a certainty to it that I don’t find anywhere else.

I brace, aim, and quick-fire, alternating shots between head and heart. Next to me, Sam does the same. We put our guns down and glide the targets. I step back with him to compare.

Evenly matched. His is just a hair closer on one of the head shots. Damn. I need to get in here more often.

I don’t realize that the kids have joined us until Lanny, at my elbow, says, “Jesus, Mom.” She sounds shaken and impressed. I put my arm around her, and all the arguments are washed away.

“Don’t fuck with the fam,” Vee says.

“Vee!” I chide.

“What?”

I just shake my head. After all . . . she’s not wrong.

As we’re packing up, the alarm sounds, and everyone steps back from their lanes, guns down and made safe—or, at least, most people obey the protocol. I see the range master coming down the row, making note of those who were sloppy about it, but he’s heading straight for us.

I feel my shoulders brace as he comes to a halt facing us, and I see Sam look up as well. Neither of us is aggressive, but both of us are on guard. The kids don’t seem to get it, but I see it in the man’s light-blue eyes before he says, “Look, I’m sorry to do this, but I’ve had a complaint.”

“About us,” Sam says.

“No. About her.” His gaze is squarely on me. “I’m going to have to ask you to come up front. I’ll refund your membership fee.”

“You’re kicking my mom out? What for? She obeys all the rules!” Lanny gets it fast, and as I