Hunter grabbed a flashlight.

The sun was fully down now, but humidity still clung to the air. Hunter had the other handgun, a .45 ACP officer’s model, in one hand, a flashlight in the other. Casper had followed him out of the house, which worked well—so well that Hunter had gone back in to yell to his uncle that he was taking the dog for a quick run.

And he could have been running, as fast as his heart was racing. It felt like it took forever to cross the pastures to the far side of the dairy farm, but he could see a small house between the trees, the porch light like a beacon.

He had no idea what he was going to do when he got there. He couldn’t exactly knock on the door with a gun in hand. And if Clare had stolen his weapon, it wasn’t like she’d hand it over.

Hunter stopped in her backyard and waited, deliberating. He wasn’t even sure this was the right house. The back patio offered no answers. Only the upstairs lights were on, although it seemed early.

Casper waited by his side, bracing against Hunter’s legs.

“Damn it,” Hunter whispered. He bit at his lip.

Could he break in?

Yeah, if he did that, his dad and his uncle would kill him. How long had he been gone? They might be starting to wonder already.

What he needed was for Clare to come running out here with the gun.

He took a deep breath and blew it out.

And then he heard the yelling.

Hunter held his breath. He couldn’t make out words, but it was definitely a man, very loud and almost incoherent.

And then a girl’s voice, high pitched and almost shrieking.

Casper growled.

Hunter put a hand on the scruff of his neck. The air was whispering all kinds of hints about this altercation, and none of them were good.

Then a gunshot cracked the night.

Hunter dropped and dashed to the side of the house, staying low. The shot had come from inside.

The screaming had escalated.

Another gunshot. This round went through a window, because glass shattered and rained down on the patio about ten feet over from where Hunter crouched.

He could barely hear over his breathing.

More screaming. A woman, but Hunter couldn’t tell if it was Clare. No one was dead yet, because they sure were making a racket. Casper barked.

Another shot. A bullet hit the storage shed across the yard. Hunter flinched.

If that was the 9mm, there would be at least five bullets left, unless shots had been fired before he got here. He and Clare had fired two in the field, and now someone had fired three.

Hunter should have grabbed a bulletproof vest out of the locker.

He fished his phone out of his pocket. He started to dial, but the screaming upstairs cut off abruptly.

Casper growled softly.

Hunter held his breath again. If he made a call, they might hear him.

He didn’t exactly want to be noticed by someone shooting wildly.

He switched to text message and found Uncle Jay’s number—his dad’s texting was sporadic at best.

Shots fired at house on opp side dairy farm. Send help.

A text came back almost immediately.

U OK?

Hunter moved to text back, but another gunshot exploded somewhere above him. He shoved the phone back into his pocket and slid toward the front of the house.

The front door was half open, the lower level a well of darkness. Was this a robbery in progress? He might have believed that—if Clare hadn’t already stolen his gun. Hunter ducked inside. He waited for his eyes to acclimate, then eased around furniture toward the staircase.

Someone was crying upstairs.

Clare?

But then he heard Clare’s voice, cold and hard and definitely not full of tears.

“You leave her alone. I swear to god I will shoot you.”

Then a man’s voice. “Shoot me. They’ll lock you up, and then what’ll you do?”

“I’ll shoot. I will.” Clare’s voice sounded strong, but Hunter heard the slightest waver beneath the words. He kept the .45 in his hands and eased up the steps.

And then he turned the corner and they were right there, in the hallway. Clare had the gun in her hands, held at chest level in both hands, just like he’d shown her.

The gun was pointed at a man in his forties wearing nothing but a pair of jeans. Hunter could smell alcohol from here.

And on the floor behind Clare lay a crumpled woman, crying, her hands over her face. Hunter could see blood between her fingers.

Hunter trained the gun on the man. “Clare,” he breathed carefully, not wanting to spook her with the gun in her hands. “It’s okay. I called the cops.”

Almost on cue, he could hear the thready sounds of a siren.

“Hunter,” she said. Her voice broke. “Hunter, you have to go.”

“It’s okay,” he said again. “I’ll hold him. Just . . . just put the gun down. Slide the safety, remember?”

The man sneered at him. “You won’t hold shit, kid.”

Hunter snorted. His own gun didn’t waver. “Some pacifist.”

“I just said . . . I just said that because—” Clare’s voice broke again. She still had the gun pointed at the man, but her grip was wavering badly. “My brother used to stop . . . used to stop him—”

“It’s okay,” said Hunter carefully. “It’s okay. Just put the gun down. The cops are coming. You don’t need to shoot him.”

The sirens were very close now. Tires crunched on the driveway, and a car door slammed.

“See?” said Hunter. “They’re here. You need to put the gun down so they don’t shoot you.”