Page 132 of Fire and Bones

Tic.

Tic.

Lipsey lifted one hand to rub at her forehead. A distraction, as she slid the other sideways across her lap.

Too late, I realized what was happening.

Before I could warn Deery, the old woman drew an object from the five-and-dime collection in her dress pocket.

My heart kicked into high gear.

Clutched in the gnarled fingers was a .38 Special snub-nosed revolver. A pink lady. Identical to the one my sister, Harry, owned.

The muzzle was pointed at the center of my chest.

Cold fear slithered into my gut.

Head motionless, I slid my eyes sideways.

Deery’s gaze remained fixed on Lipsey, his expression neutral.

“You don’t want to do that,” he said, voice low and steady.

“Says who?”

“You know the consequences.”

“I’m eighty-eight.”

“Who would look out for Roy and Ronan?”

“Didn’t I say never mention my grandsons?” Harsh as a buzz saw.

“You did.”

“Yet I hear their names comin’ off your cop tongue!” A vein throbbed in her forehead.

It was as if a spigot had suddenly been turned. The spike from rational to manic was shocking. And terrifying.

And very familiar.

All her adult life my mother suffered from a condition that held her captive to seismic and unpredictable mood swings. The name of the disorder changed over the years, but the mercurial pattern never loosened its grip. Recognizing that Lipsey was exhibiting similar symptoms, fueled by an additional underbelly of paranoia, I knew argument was pointless.

Not fully appreciating the level of Lipsey’s mental instability, Deery continued to press.

“I don’t—”

Eyes filled with murderous rage, Lipsey swung the gun toward the detective and pulled the trigger. The sound ricocheting off glass and tile was deafening.

The bullet entered Deery’s chest, sending a spray of blood into the air. Letting loose a low groan, he slumped sideways onto the sofa.

Before I could reach out, his body slid from the threadbare cushion. His head hit the floor with a sickening crack.

Adrenaline shot through me so fast my mind short-circuited. Still, some lucid faction of neurons did the math.

It would take me six steps to reach Lipsey. I’d have to grab her hand, maybe break it, and wrestle the gun free. Plenty of time for the old hag to empty a round into my sternum.

I remained frozen in place.