Page 6 of The Secrets We Hide
So did Jude. She rolled down her window.
Emmy tapped the brake. The cruiser slowed to a crawl. She heard it again—two this time, louder, more distinctive, and very close.
Pop. Pop.
They all ducked below the glass line. Emmy felt her heart slam into her spine. Adrenaline flooded her senses, sharpening her vision, electrifying her skin.
“On the right.” Jude pointed up the road, her arm tensed like an arrow notched into a bow.
Emmy punched the gas. The cruiser lurched toward the rise. She grabbed the mic off the dash, but Cole was already calling it in on his phone.
“Active shooter near the sixteen-hundred block of Clifton Gardens. Requesting immediate backup and medical.”
“There.” Jude was pointing again. One house down on the right. Corner lot. Two-story brick with white trim. Both garage doors up. Blue Toyota RAV4 parked nose-out in the driveway. Trunk gaping open. Suitcase on the ground. Front door closed. Side window broken. A girl’s bicycle was lying on its side on the front lawn.
Pink frame. White seat. Long sparklers draping down from the handlebar grips.
Emmy swerved against the driveway, angling the cruiser to block the intersection. She released the latch on the trunk before she got out. Her mind rolled through the possibilities as she rushed to the back of the cruiser and grabbed her twelve-gauge shotgun: home invasion, sexual assault, domestic violence, kidnapping, abduction, burglary gone wrong.
Pop.
Emmy flinched. The gunshot felt like it was inside her head.
She told Jude, “Backup will take at least ten minutes.”
“I’ll cover the rear exits.” Jude didn’t wait for permission. She lifted Emmy’s Glock from the case and jogged toward thehouse. She had taken off her high heels, too. Her bare feet left impressions in the grass when she disappeared around the side.
“Mom!” Cole rapped his knuckles on the back window. He couldn’t open the door from inside.
She let him out, ordering, “Tell dispatch to send every deputy we’ve got. Check on the neighbors. Make sure they lock all their windows and doors. Go.”
“Yes, chief.”
Emmy pumped the shotgun. She jammed the butt of the stock into the soft part of her shoulder. Headed toward the front porch. All of her senses were on alert. Her eyes scanned the windows as she climbed the wooden stairs. Her ears strained for sounds. Nostrils flared at the acrid, sulfurous stench of recent gunfire. Finger tensed along the cold metal of the trigger guard in case she had to react.
Broken glass littered the porch. Emmy stepped around the pieces, narrowed herself against the doorframe in case someone was waiting on the other side with a weapon of their own. The bones inside of her fingers felt like they were vibrating as she tried the latch.
Locked.
Four gunshots. Four squeezes on the trigger. Her brain zeroed in on a likely scenario. Wife trying to leave her husband. Suitcase packed. He comes home early. A nasty fight ensues. A gun is nearby because guns were always too close at hand.
Pop.
Their child dumps her bike on the lawn and runs inside.
Pop. Pop.
Double tap, but the kid could still be alive.
Pop.
Gun to his head? To finish off a victim? A parting shot?
There was no way to access the lock on the door through the broken window. Emmy made herself breathe. Tried to calm her racing heartbeat. She’d given Jude enough time to secure the back exits in case the shooter tried to run. It was time to breech.
“Police!” Emmy banged her fist on the door. “Open up!”
She waited, counting off the slowest five seconds of her life. Her brain carouseled through what could be waiting for herinside: a bullet, a blast of buckshot, a hammer, a knife, a base-ball bat.
