Page 95 of Brimstone Hollow

Coroner Bradley’s voice, shaking, scared, despondent, says, “… been able to go back. He had to go. Ezra had to go and I… I did what I had to do…”

“Roman, come on,” says Dishman, nice and soft, soothing. “Come on, now. You don’t have to do this. We can go back into town together. We can get all this straightened out.”

“I can’t,” Bradley says. He sounds less scared now. More defeated. Cold.

“Roman—” Dishman starts.

“No,” Bradley says. “What I did… They’ll never forgive me. I never should’ve—Listen, will—”

“Bradley, please,” Dishman says. “Please, think of Diana and Sophia.”

At that, I edge into the room. The door creaks as I enter and I find myself just behind Dishman, who stands in the middle of the room. On the far side of it, behind a little kitchen table, is Roman Bradley, a revolver glinting in his hand.

He’d been aiming the gun at Dishman, but as I enter the room, he swings it toward to me.

“No!” Dishman shouts. “No, don’t shoot.”

His piece is still in its holster. He’s got his hands up.

All my old training whooshes back with a surge of adrenaline. My heart rate settles and I take in the scene with practiced efficiency. Bradley stands behind the kitchen table. On the table is an empty tumbler, a half-empty bottle of whiskey, a pad of paper, and a pen. Behind him is a little kitchen decorated in red-and-white gingham. Wild lilies, orange and white, wilt in a beam of sunlight on the butcher-block counter.

Finally, I let my gaze settle on Bradley himself. His gun is still trained on me, but his hands are shaking. He’s sweating, swaying, probably drunk.His eyes are wide and wild. All the cool is gone, replaced with terror and grief and, likely, guilt.

I aim down my barrel at him, ready to shoot, hoping I won’t have to.

“Roman,” Dishman says, softly. “Please.”

Bradley swings the gun back toward Dishman.

“You don’t have to do this,” Dishman says, calmer now than when Bradley was aiming at me. “Just lay it down. We can all go home.”

“My family,” Bradley says, voice breaking. He lets out a shuddering breath. “Tell them I’m sorry.”

It only takes a second. But the images, I know, will be burned into my brain forever.

Bradley squeezing his eyes shut.

His mouth twisting into a pained grimace of expectation.

Swinging the gun away from us, thrusting it under his own chin.

“No!” Dishman shouts as I scream, “Wait!”

BLAM!

And, finally, the spray of red on wild lilies.

TWENTY-SEVEN

“THERE WAS NOTHING YOUcould do,” Dishman says, turning to me.

It’s only when he rests a steadying hand on my shoulder that I realize I’m shaking.

“I… I could’ve…” I start, my voice croaky and thin.

He turns me toward him, away from Bradley’s corpse lying behind the table. There’s a difference, after all, between seeing a dead body and seeing a body die. There’s something uniquely horrifying about witnessing the seething desperation that suddenly envelops a person determined to end their life. I’d seen it once before. Only once. I’d hoped to never see it again.

“He…” I start again, but my teeth are chattering.