“Doesn’t matter. You can’t let him talk to you that way,” I say, because I want to slam a fist into Carl’s teeth. I know it wouldn’t go well. I still want to do it.
“He can talk any way he wants. Blessings of living in a free country.” Javi sounds pleasant, still. “Doesn’t mean no consequences, ma’am. He’ll be getting a letter banning him from the range. Not because of what he said, but I don’t trust him to be responsible around other shooters. Not only are we entitled to turn people away for unsafe and aggressive behavior, we’re required to.” He smiles a little. A grim, cold little smile. “And if he wants to have a word with me in the parking lot sometime later, fine. We can do that.”
“He might bring his beer buddies.”
“That’ll be fun.”
“So, who was the guy that stepped up?” I jerk my head toward the man; he’s already got his hearing protection on again. I’m curious, because he’s not a usual range rat, or at least not during the times I tend to shoot.
“Sam Cade.” Javi shrugs. “He’s okay. New guy. Kinda surprised he did that. Most people wouldn’t.”
I hold out my hand. He shakes it. “Thank you, sir. You run a tight range.”
“I owe it to everybody who comes here. Be safe out there,” he says, then turns back to the waiting shooters. He breaks out his drill sergeant voice again. “Range is clear! Commence fire!”
I duck out as the thunder of bullets rattles again. The run-in between Javi and the other man has shaved a little off my good mood, but I still feel vastly elated as I leave my hearing protection on the rack outside. Fully certified. I’ve been thinking about it for a very long time, cautious, unsure about whether or not I dared to put my name on official records. I’d always had guns, but it had been a risk, carrying without a license. I finally felt settled well enough here that I could take the leap.
My phone buzzes as I unlock the car, and I nearly fumble it as I open up the back to place my gear inside. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Proctor?”
“Ms. Proctor,” I automatically correct, then glance at the caller ID. I have to suppress a groan. School administration office. It’s a number with which I am already depressingly familiar.
“I’m sorry to tell you that your daughter, Atlanta—”
“Is in trouble,” I finish for the woman on the other end. “So I guess this must be Tuesday.” I lift the panel on the floor. Beneath, there’s a lockbox, big enough for the gun bag, and I put it in and slam the box shut, then pull the carpet back over to conceal it.
The woman on the other end of the call makes a disapproving sound, low in her throat. Her voice rises a notch. “It’s not funny, Mrs. Proctor. The principal is going to need you to come in to have a serious discussion. This is the fourth incident in three months, and it’s simply not acceptable behavior for a girl of Lanny’s age!”
Lanny is fourteen, a perfectly predictable age to be acting out, but I don’t say that. I just ask, “What happened?” as I walk to the front of the Jeep and climb in. I have to leave the door open a moment to let the suffocating heat bleed out; I hadn’t managed to score one of the shady spots in the range’s narrow parking lot.
“The principal would much rather discuss it in person. Your daughter will need to be picked up from the office. She’s been suspended from classes for a week.”
“A week? What did she do?”
“As I said, the principal would prefer to talk face-to-face. Half an hour?”
Half an hour doesn’t give me time to take a shower and get rid of the smell of the range, but maybe that’s for the best. Having a gunpowder perfume probably wouldn’t hurt me in this particular situation. “Fine,” I say. “I’ll be there.”
I say it calmly. Most mothers, I think, would have been angry and upset, but in the great history of disasters in my life, this hardly deserves a raised eyebrow.
As soon as I hang up, my phone buzzes with a text, and I figure it will be Lanny, trying to get her side of the story out fast before I hear the less charitable official version.
It isn’t Lanny, though, and as I crank up the Jeep, I see my son’s name glowing on the screen. Connor. I swipe and read the text, which is terse and to the point: Lanny in fight. 1. It takes me a second to translate that last bit, but of course the number one equals won. I can’t decide whether he’s proud or frantic: proud that his sister held her own, or frantic that it might get them booted out of school again. It’s a valid fear. This past year has been a brief, fragile peace between unpacking boxes and packing them again, and I don’t want it to end so soon, either. The kids deserve a little peace, and a sense of stability and safety. Connor already has anxiety issues. Lanny acts out on a regular basis. None of us is whole anymore. I try not to blame myself for that, but it’s hard.
It damn sure isn’t their fault.
I text back a quick reply and put the Jeep in reverse. I’ve changed vehicles frequently over the past few years, from necessity, but this one . . . I love this one. I bought it cheap for cash on Craigslist, a quick and anonymous purchase, and it’s just the right thing for the steep, woody terrain around the lake, and the hills that stretch up toward misty blue mountains.
The Jeep is a fighter. It’s seen hard times. The transmission needs work, the steering’s a little off. But scars and all, it has survived, and it still keeps rolling.
The symbolism isn’t lost on me.
It bucks a little as I steer down the steep hill, passing through cool pine shade and into blazing noonday sun again. The shooting range sits on an overlook, and as I turn onto the road that leads down, the lake slips gradually into view. Light shatters and scatters on the ripples and shifts of the deep blue-green water. Stillhouse Lake is a hidden gem. Used to be an expensive gated community, but with the financial crunch, the community’s funds cratered, and the gates now stand permanently open, the guardhouse at the entrance empty except for spiders and the occasional raccoon. Still, the illusion of wealth lingers here: a scattering of high, fancy houses, though many of the other dwellings are more along the lines of smaller cabins now. There are boaters on the water, but it’s far from crowded even in today’s fine weather. The dark pines scratch at the sky as I speed past them down the narrow road, and the sense of finally being right strikes me again.
I haven’t found many places in the past few years that felt even a little safe, and certainly none that felt like . . . like home. But this place—the lake, the hills, the pines, the half-wild remoteness—eases the part of me that never really relaxes anymore. The first time I’d seen it, I’d thought, This is the place. I put no stock in past lives, but it felt like recognition. Acceptance. Destiny.
Damn it, Lanny, I don’t want to have to leave this behind so soon because you can’t learn to blend. Don’t do this to us.
Gwen Proctor is the fourth identity I’ve had since leaving Wichita. Gina Royal lies dead in the past; I’m not that woman anymore. In fact, I can hardly recognize her now, that weak creature who’d submitted, pretended, smoothed over every ripple of trouble that rose.
Who’d aided and abetted, however unconsciously.