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 might have predicted, she isn’t about to stand for it. She thrusts herself forward, chin out. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes flashing, and I’m glad Connor puts a hand on her shoulder to hold her back. I’m too wrong-footed to intervene, too taken by surprise. And yes, too exposed, too humiliated; I hate the people watching me, whispering. One or two have taken out their phones to film it. I know this all too well. Just another recurring nightmare. I feel a sick, weightless darkness forming in the pit of my stomach.
“Simmer down, kid,” the range master tells Lanny, and of all the things he could have picked to say, that’s the worst. I see Lanny’s volcano building up to blow. Connor’s hand tightens on her shoulder, but she shrugs him off. “Okay, all of y’all, follow me.” He doesn’t want a scene any more than I do.
My daughter opens her mouth to say something none of us can take back, and I quickly say, in as even a tone as I can, “Of course. I’m happy to comply. But just me, please. Sam will stay with the kids.” I’m not calm. I feel like everything’s turned to quicksand under my feet, but getting out of here, away from the watchers . . . that’s the only thing I can control about this moment. More than that, I need Lanny to cool down. She needs to learn control if she wants to survive long-term in a world that will happily push her right over the edge. If nothing else, I have to show her that.
But I see the disappointment and disbelief in my daughter’s expression before I turn away, and it hurts like a slap. Sam moves to stand close to her. Good. I need him to be a calming influence right now. I’m trying, but I can feel the jitter under my skin, the churn in my guts. I know what’s coming; I’ve faced it often enough. I’d just hoped that in a town as large and diverse as this one, it would take longer to manifest.
Once we’re in his office, the range master doesn’t look comfortable having this conversation. So I save him the trouble. “Let me guess. Someone—you don’t need to tell me who, it doesn’t matter—identified me as Gina Royal, ex-wife of a serial killer. And they don’t like having me around. Bad press.”
“Ma’am, you’ve been arrested in connection with not just one major case, but three.”
“Never convicted,” I say. It sounds flippant, but he has to know I have no actual criminal convictions. I was arrested originally and put on trial as Melvin’s accomplice; the fact that I was judged not guilty will never be proof of innocence. “Look. I have a dark past. Lots of folks do. But I need a place to practice.”
“That place can’t be here, ma’am,” he says. “I got investors who don’t like bad press.” He hesitates a second, then reaches down to open a drawer in the plain military-surplus desk that sits in the center of the office. He takes out a piece of paper and slides it across to me.
I know what it is before I touch it. I recognize the style, the layout, everything. It’s a wanted poster, and it’s got my picture on it. In smaller pictures, my two kids. I don’t bother to read it; it’ll spread the lies about how I helped Melvin Royal get away with murders, and how my kids are just as sick. I not only know what it says; I know who designed it.
Sam made it, originally, years ago. Part of a long harassment campaign by the Lost Angels online group he was part of, and helped found, for the families of Melvin Royal’s victims. It’s our shared horrible past, yes, and we’ve put that behind us . . . but this still hurts. I feel wounds coming open and dripping fresh pain.
The flyer used my mug shot from my arrest on the day Melvin’s crimes were discovered. I look like that woman, still, though I barely recognize her at the same time. The flat look in her eyes that I recall as shock . . . it comes across as hard and emotionless. Gina Royal was a different person, and I never want to be her again. And I hate the echoes this wakes in me, the earthquake it unleashes.
I realize I haven’t said anything. I look up at the man and say, “Where did you get it?”
“They went up today on telephone poles in the neighborhood. Word’s getting out, Ms. Proctor. Ain’t no escaping it.”
“You’ve got surveillance in the parking lot. You could tell me who put them up.”
“I can’t do that, ma’am.”
Won’t, more like. I don’t push him. There’s no point. I pick up the flyer and ask if I can keep it; when he nods, I fold it and put it in my pocket. Then I let him write me out a refund check for the whole family’s fees, and I put it in my pocket too. I don’t say anything else, not even when he apologizes and offers to shake my hand. He’s trying to ease his own feeling of injustice, and I don’t want any part of that. I just nod and leave.
I can’t speak because if I do, I’ll scream.
Leaving the office, I walk right past Sam and the kids. I ignore his questioning look. I finally swallow and manage to say, “Let’s go,” and head toward the building’s exit.
Outside, the monster attacks. Not the physical kind of assault; this is far worse. I feel the panic of being outside, vulnerable, watched, hunted. My brain is reacting to a threat by dumping survival adrenaline into my blood at near-toxic levels, and there’s nothing for me to fight. Nothing but myself.
I can’t breathe. I try, but it feels like my diaphragm has frozen solid, like my lungs have filled with heavy ice. My pulse is pounding so hard I can’t hear anything else. I know I should control it, can control it, but nothing works. Nausea slides over me like grease, but I don’t even have the ability to vomit it out.