Page 3 of Darkwater Lane

Finally, I turn to face him. He’s still as handsome as the day I met him four years ago, though he’s accumulated more lines around his eyes, and his hair has grayed at the temples. “Am I really that easy?”

He snorts. “I don’t think anyone would describe you aseasy.” His expression is gentle and loving, even though he has to be as enraged by the podcast as I am––if not more. After all, it’shissister’s gruesome death the Lost Angels are exploiting as entertainment.

I want to fall against him and feel his arms around me, and while we’re the only ones in the bay right now, I’m keenly aware of the cameras in the corners giving the range master a clear view of everything we’re doing.

“I take it you’ve heard it?”

A muscle twitches along his jaw, and he nods.

I place a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry.”

He looks genuinely surprised. “About what?”

“Rowan.”

At her name, sorrow flashes across his face. “I had no idea she felt that way. I met her at Callie’s funeral and tried reaching out to her afterward. We’d both lost a sister, and I figured we had that in common. I wanted to learn more about Callie, see old pictures,hear stories about her growing up. Rowan wasn’t interested. I thought maybe she needed time and space to heal, so I backed off. I stopped reaching out to her and checking in. Maybe I shouldn’t have. Maybe if I’d kept trying to forge some sort of relationship, I could have prevented the podcast.”

“If it hadn’t been Rowan, it would have been someone else.” I hear the bitterness in my voice. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned about the Lost Angels, it’s that they don’t listen to reason. Or reality. You can’t blame yourself.”

He doesn’t agree or disagree with me. We both know I can tell him not to blame himself until I’m blue in the face and it won’t matter. “Have the kids heard it?” he asks instead.

“I don’t see how we’re going to be able to keep it from them. Not with how fast it’s blowing up.” I press my fingers against my eyes. The thought of what this will mean for Lanny and Connor overwhelms me. Threats against us will rise, we’ll have to increase security, become more vigilant. Lose the hard-earned peace we’ve worked so hard to achieve. If this podcast grows as popular as some other true crime shows, it will be just like it was in the early days, right after Melvin was convicted and I was acquitted. Except now there will be a new generation of sickos to deal with.

Given how toxic the online world has become, how willing people are to resort to violence, to act first and ask questions later—or never—things could be even worse this time around.

“This needs to end,” I say. “I’m tired of it. All of it. I’m tired of running scared. Of letting the Lost Angels vilify me and the people I love. I need this to be over. We need to make that happen—we need to end it. End them. For good this time.”

Sam studies my expression and I know what he sees: resolve and fury. “Then let’s make that happen.”

If only it were that easy. “How? We’ve tried to talk reason into them. We’ve sent cease and desist letters. We’ve threatened litigation.”I hear a note of helplessness in my voice, which only fuels my rage. Gina Royal was helpless. Gwen Proctor isn’t.

I refuse to ever feel helpless again. It’s one of the reasons I started learning how to shoot in the first place, and why I keep training. It’s a reminder of my own agency.

Sam lifts a shoulder. “We’ll find a way. It may take getting a little creative and thinking outside the box, but we’ll figure out how to make the Lost Angels listen.”

With a sigh, I turn back to the counter, push the button to recall my target from downrange, and examine it critically as it nears. It’s riddled with precisely clustered holes, though a few shots went a bit wide to the right. I must have had too much of my finger on the trigger. I’ll have to correct for that next time.

“Every time the Lost Angels accuse me of being involved in Melvin’s murders, they’re putting a target on my back. On the kids’ backs, too. And yours.” I pull the target from the clips and hold it up, poking a finger at the cluster of holes near the center. “If they even had a taste of the kind of torment they’ve put me through—” I swallow the rest of the statement and shake my head.

The reality is, no matter how much I hate the Lost Angels, I wouldn’t wish that kind of persecution on anyone.

The door at the end of the bay opens again, and an older man nods in a silent hello before making his way to one of the other shooting lanes. With a glance, Sam and I agree to table our conversation. He helps me pack up my gear, and after we stop to wash with D-Lead soap, we head toward the parking lot.

Once outside, I draw in a deep breath of fresh air, though the lingering scent of gunpowder still clings to me. I pull my phone from my pocket and wince. As I’d expected, the screen is crowded with notifications about the podcast. I ignore them all, focusing instead on a slew of texts from Lanny. My stomach sinks as I read them.

Lanny

Done with class, headed to the barn to grab Connor.

Lanny

Did you hear about that true podcast crime on Melvin? I overheard some kids talking about it at lunch.

Lanny

Mom! I started listening to that podcast. WTF?

Lanny

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