“Haaannaaaah.” Mom sounded like a petrified child.
I whipped around, laid my gun on the dresser. Ran to hold her. “It’s okay now, he’s gone.”
“What happened, why did he—”
“Shh, it’s okay.” Tears streaked her face. I wiped them away.
My computer. The truth hit home.
God, tell me this isn’t true.
Mom held onto me and cried. “You had a gun! You shot him.”
My throat tried to close. “I know, I know.”
“Is he gone now?”
“Yes. But he might be back.”
“Call the police!”
I wanted to. How I wanted that. But I couldn’t trust San Carlos police now. They were part of the San Mateo Sheriff’s Department. As were Harcroft and Wade. And no one had come to our aid. The officer outside, our supposed protection, had to have heard the gunshots.
“We have to leave. Right now.”
“Leave?”
I yanked the covers off her legs. “Come on. Hurry.”
“Where will we go?”
Yes, where?
“Come on, get up.” I swung her legs over the edge of the bed. My heart still galloped, adrenaline zinging my nerves. Thoughts whirled in my head. No time to sift through which ones were crazy and which made sense.
My laptop. And my backup drive.
Thank goodness I was still dressed in my jeans and sweatshirt. I flew around Mom’s room, yanking out clothes and throwing them into a suitcase I dragged from her closet. Threw her medicine in as well. Mom’s eyes were wide, her gaze jerking around the room. Her hands flailed in the air, seeking what to do.
“Here, put these on.” I thrust blue knit pants and a green shirt into her hands.
“What about under—”
“Here.” I threw a pair of panties on the bed.
How long had passed since Samuelson left? Two minutes? One more, and we had to be out of there. I pulled a coat for Mom off its hanger, told her to put it on.
His gun. I spun around and spotted the large weapon still lying on the floor near the wall. What to do with it?
I kicked it into the hall. Couldn’t leave it loaded in the room with Mom.
“What are you doing?” Mom wailed.
My own gun lay on the dresser, with one bullet left. I scooped it up.
In the hall I kicked Samuelson’s gun again, toward the kitchen. When it was far enough away from my mother, I ran to get a plastic grocery bag. Set my own gun on the kitchen counter. Without touching the man’s gun I scooped it inside the bag and wrapped it up, then darted to my room and shoved it in a drawer.
Wait. I yanked the drawer open. What if they came back and ransacked my house? I couldn’t leave the gun here. If it contained fingerprints, it was evidence.
From my closet shelf I pulled down a tote bag and shoved the wrapped gun inside. Thrust the bag over my shoulder. Hustled back to the kitchen and threw my gun inside the tote as well.
“Let’s go, Mom.” I ran into her room and pushed her toward the hall. Picked up her small suitcase.
“Wait, my hat!”
“There’s no time.” I thought my heart would burst.
“I’m not leaving without my hat!”
My head snapped back and forth, looking for it. There—on her dresser. I grabbed it and stuffed it in her coat pocket.
I took no clothes from my room, just the box of extra bullets. These, too, I dropped in the tote bag. I snatched up the coat I’d worn earlier that day from the front closet, and my purse. Clutching Mom’s hand, I steered her through the kitchen and into the garage. Pushed her into my car and belted her in. Her suitcase and the tote bag I threw in the backseat. I kept my purse up front. My cell phone was in it.
Wait. Shouldn’t I have my gun close?
I grabbed it from the tote bag and stuck it in my purse. Mom was so confused she didn’t notice.
In the car I pushed the button for the garage door. My pulse whooshed in my ears. Would we get out? They could be sitting right out there, waiting for us . . .
I’d shot a man. Pulled the trigger four times. What if he died?
The door rolled open. I screeched out of the garage and driveway. On the street I threw a wild look at the sheriff’s van. Wouldn’t the deputy inside follow once he saw me rush out of there?
I punched the garage door shut and took off down the street, passing the van.
It didn’t move.
“Hannah, you’re driving too fast.” Mom clutched her seat. “Where are we going? I want to go home.”
“We can’t.”
At the first corner I hesitated. Which way? Where on earth could we go?
I turned left, heading for Edgewood Road. From there I gunned up to 280 and turned south.
Mom was crying. “What’s happening, where are we going, who was that man?”