contents of the drive were so important to Paul. Having that information would put the balance of power firmly back on Claire’s side.
Carefully, she removed the gun from the bag. The oily metallic smell was familiar. Two years ago, she had taken Paul to a gun range for his birthday. Paul had been pleased, but only because Claire had thought to do something so completely out of her comfort range. She hadn’t lasted more than ten minutes inside the range. The emotional toll of holding death in her hands had sent Claire out to the parking lot where she had dissolved into tears. Paul had soothed her while he laughed, because it was silly, and Claire knew it was silly, but she had been absolutely petrified.
The guns were loud. Everything smelled foreign and dangerous. Just holding the loaded Glock made her tremble. Nothing about Claire was equipped to use a gun. She didn’t have the hand strength to reliably pull back the slide. The recoil was panic-inducing. She was afraid she would drop the gun and accidentally kill somebody or herself, or both. She was afraid the discharged shell would burn her skin. Every time she pulled the trigger, her fear bumped up another notch until she was shaking too hard to keep her fingers wrapped around the grip.
This had all come later. Before they stepped foot on the range, Paul had asked the rangemaster for a thorough explanation of all the weapons. Claire had been surprised by his request because she just assumed that her husband knew everything about everything. The rangemaster had taken them to a glass display that showcased the guns they could rent by the hour: pistols, handguns, a few rifles, and, most alarmingly, a machine gun.
They had decided on the Glock because the brand was most familiar. The pistol was a nine-millimeter. You had to pull back the slide to load the bullet into the chamber. With a revolver, you just dropped the bullets into the cylinder, clicked the cylinder into place, cocked the firing pin, or hammer, then pulled the trigger.
Of course, the key word here was bullets.
Claire examined Lydia’s revolver. Her sister would not be so stupid as to hide a loaded gun under her back porch. Still, Claire checked the cylinder. The five chambers were empty. She did a mental inventory of the cash in her wallet. She could go to a sporting goods store or a Walmart and buy ammunition with cash because a credit card transaction would show up somewhere.
The floodlights came on.
Claire bumped her head on the deck stairs. Her skull clanged like a bell.
Rick Butler leaned down to look at her. “Can I help you?”
Claire put the gun back in the bag. She tried to crawl out from underneath the deck, but she needed both hands. She tossed the bag out into the yard. Rick stepped back like she’d thrown acid at his feet.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized, because that was her answer for everything. “I’m Claire Scott, Lydia’s—”
“Sister.” Rick looked down at the gun. “I thought she got rid of that thing.”
“Well.” Claire clapped her hands together to clean off the dirt. She tried good manners, because Helen had taught her to always be polite. At least initially. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“Sure,” he said. “An explanation would be nice.”
Claire nodded, because it would be nice, but she couldn’t give him one. She settled on another “I’m sorry.” She picked up the gun. She wrapped the bag tightly around the barrel.
“Wait a minute,” Rick said, because he could obviously tell she was going to leave. “Where’s Lydia?”
As usual, Paul’s timing was impeccable. Claire felt Lydia’s phone vibrate in her back pocket. He had sent the latest photo. Should she show it to Rick? Should she let him know what was going on with the woman to whom he had devoted the last thirteen years of his life?
Claire said, “I need to go.”
Rick narrowed his eyes. Either he was extremely perceptive or Claire was too easy to read. “You’re not leaving here until you tell me what’s going on.”
“I have a gun in my hands.”
“Then use it.”
They stared at each other. Somewhere, a dog started barking. Almost a full minute passed before Claire said, “I’m sorry.”
“You keep saying that, but it doesn’t seem like it.”
He had no idea how truly sorry Claire was. “I need to go.”
“With an empty gun that’s been buried in the ground?” Rick shook his head. He didn’t look angry anymore. He looked frightened.