Bernadette felt her stomach churning and did nothing to stop herself from throwing up. A stomach full of Hot Pockets and bile bubbled over her chin and spilled down the front of her button-up IGA work smock. She didn’t even make an attempt to wipe it away. Her brain wouldn’t let her. She was systematically shutting down, and the man in the suit could see it happening in her eyes. Now he looked the way he really felt. He was disgusted with her and he backed away. He leaned over and picked up the gun from the coffee table.
“Fenn, you don’t want to fuck this nasty bitch, do you? You’ll need to clean her up first if you do.” He looked at the big man and lifted both his hands in the air as if to say, Well?
“No,” Fenn said. That was it. Just one syllable from this man and the strange sound of him made Bernadette throw up again. This time everything left in her stomach was now down the front of her. Smoke looked even more disgusted with her. He raised the gun and pointed it at her. She just stared at the barrel, still lost in the warped reality of the last few minutes of her life. Everything from the first gunshot going off to this man in a suit pointing Bobby’s gun at her played out in her head all at once. She thought about her sister. She couldn’t remember if she had told her she loved her or not. The muscles in Bernadette’s face were loose and sagged. “Love—Jess,” she said in short bursts.
“Oh, how sweet you are. It’s a shame to kill such a sweet girl. We could have had a little fun first, but oh well.”
“Wait,” Bernadette said. Another word escaped past the gate of her traumatized mind, and then another one followed. “Pregnant.”
Smoke smiled and uttered another syllable that made Bernadette’s abdomen seize. “So?”
She stared at the man and accepted it. She waited to die.
A sharp whistling sound came from behind her in the kitchen. Bernadette thought it was her imagination at first, but she saw the man in the suit shift his attention past her and look at where the sound came from. He heard it, too. He looked surprised, but before he could do anything—say anything—another shot rang out so close to her that it robbed Bernadette of her hearing for real this time. She screamed again but could only hear it in her head.
The man in the suit still stood there before a second shot rang out and put him down. The monster by the window lunged toward her. She kept screaming, but two more shots rang out through the droning in her head, and the bigger man fell forward onto the coffee table, smashing it to pieces. Bernadette kept screaming as the short man’s blood oozed out of him and the slick pool inched its way closer to her. She was barely aware of the third man walking out of the kitchen behind her, a man with no face, a figure composed completely of shadows. He sat beside her and made a noise she couldn’t make out. Her ears were still ringing. She was still screaming. He was holding her hands now. He wore gloves and he was handing her something. He was handing her a gun. He was saying something. His words began to cut through. He was telling her it was okay—that she was safe now. He kept repeating it in her ear as he sat with her.
He kept saying “It’s okay” and “You’re safe now” until the mantras finally quieted her. She was holding a gun now, and then the dark man was standing up. He crossed in front of her and leaned down to touch the first man he’d just killed. He moved like liquid—smooth and relaxed. He was touching his neck. He was feeling for a pulse. Bernadette’s world was beginning to come back into focus and she could make out the details. She screamed and the man removed his hand from the small dead man and moved closer to her.
This man wasn’t made of shadows at all. He was just dressed in black and wore a mask. His clothing was tactical—military, maybe. His pants were covered in Velcro-fastened pockets and he wore a tight black fleece hoodie, zipped up to the top of the collar covering his neck. Not a bit of skin showed on the man from head to toe. Bernadette avoided the man’s eyes. She couldn’t bear to see another pair of eyes like those of the other two men who had invaded her home. She sat against the sofa surrounded by dead people and held the small gun the man in black had given her. She kept it pointed at him, but he didn’t seem to mind. She watched him pick up the gun her attacker had been holding and do something to it so the part holding the bullets ejected into his gloved hand. “Bernadette,” he said. He knew her name. She squeezed the grip of the gun, unaware or unable to do anything else with it. “Bernadette,” he said again, and held the two parts of the dismantled gun out in front of him for her to see. It was a calming gesture. The third time he spoke her name she answered.
“Please,” she said. “Please—don’t—hurt—me.” Her voice came out in short, suffocated bursts of sound. The gun she held outstretched in front of her shook under its own weight, but she didn’t let it lower.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. “The men who did this are dead. You’re safe. Just breathe.”
“Who—are—you?”
“That doesn’t matter right now. The only thing that matters is that you’re safe now. Just breathe and try to calm down. The police are on their way.”
“The police?”
“Yes, the police, but I need you to focus. Just breathe and focus.” He spoke softly with a soothing tone, and soon Bernadette began to do what he said. She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“That’s good. Very good.”
She pulled in more of the rancid, copper-tinged air and heaved it back out.
“All right,” he said. “Now listen to me carefully, okay?”
Bernadette nodded and let the gun lower a few inches. Her arms burned and she wanted so badly to just let it drop to her lap.
“The person who gave Bobby this money, a man named Arnie Blackwell—”
“He’s not here.” Bernadette had regained her bearings and her voice. It was easier to speak. “I didn’t even know the money was there.”
The man stood silent and Bernadette wished she’d said nothing. He moved toward the front window and then back to where the bodies were on the floor. He took short, deliberate steps as if he was measuring the distance with his footsteps. He faced her again and Bernadette immediately looked down at his chest to avoid eye contact. “But you do know the man I’m talking about, right? Arnold. Arnold Blackwell.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Okay, so he didn’t tell you about the money?”
“No.”
“And you don’t know who these people are?” He kicked at the smaller Asian’s lifeless body at his feet.
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
Bernadette looked at the dead men but didn’t have to in order to answer.
“No. I’ve never seen either of them before in my life.”
“Okay, Bernadette. I believe you, but I need to ask you one more question, and I need you to be very sure of your answer, all right? It’s very important. Do you understand?”
She nodded again. “Yes.”
“Do you know where I can find Arnold’s little brother?”
The question almost didn’t register. It was a strange question and Bernadette felt like she was slipping back into that place between real and not real. “What?” she said.