First Family (Sean King & Michelle Maxwell 4)

He held out his hand for her to take. She did.

“You cry, sweetie. You always cry.”

“I don’t want to stay here.”

“Let’s go.”

Michelle had nearly made it to her SUV when it happened. Without any warning at all, her feet pointed toward the house and she started to run.

“Michelle!” her father screamed.

She was already inside the old building and racing up the stairs. Feet pounded after her. She took the steps two at a time, her breaths coming in gasps, as though she had run miles instead of yards.

She reached the top. The door to her bedroom was closed. But that was not her destination. She raced to the door at the end of the hall and kicked it open.

“Michelle, no!” her father roared from behind her.

She stared into the room. Her hand went to her gun. She flicked off the cover strap. The Sig was out, pointed straight ahead.

“Michelle!” Feet pounded closer.

“Get away from my mom!” she screamed.

In Michelle’s mind her mother looked back at her, terrified. She was on her knees, her dress half torn off. Michelle could see her mother’s bra, the indentation of her heavy cleavage, and this exposure terrified her.

“Baby!” Sally Maxwell yelled out to her. “Go back downstairs.” Her mother was young, young and alive. Long white hair had been replaced with soft dark strands. She was beautiful. Flawless, except for the torn dress, the terrified expression, the man in Army fatigues standing over her.

“Get away from her. Stop hurting her!” Michelle screamed in a voice she had only used for arresting someone.

“Baby, please, it’s all right,” said her mother. “Go back downstairs.”

Michelle’s finger slipped to the trigger. “Stop it. Stop it!”

The man turned and looked at her. He would have probably smiled, like he had all the other nights. Except she was pointing his own gun at him, the one she’d pulled from the holster he’d carelessly tossed on the chair. You didn’t smile when a gun was pointed at you. Even by a six-year-old child.

He made a move toward her.

Just as she had that night, Michelle now fired a single shot. It passed through the air and slammed into the wall opposite.

A big hand clamped down on her pistol, took it from her. She let it go. It was so heavy, she couldn’t hold it anymore. She looked into the room. Saw her mother screaming. Screaming at what Michelle had done. At the dead man on the floor.

A hand was on her shoulder. Michelle turned to look.

“Dad?” she said in an odd voice.

“It’s all right, baby,” her father said. “I’m here.”

Michelle pointed into the room. “I did that.”

“I know. Protecting your mom, that’s all.”

She gripped his shoulder. “We have to take him away, but don’t leave me in the car, Dad. Not this time. I can see his face. You have to remember to cover up his face.”

“Michelle!”

“You have to cover his face. If I see his face—” Her breaths were coming in short swells. She was barely able to draw one breath before she needed another.

Her father put the gun down and squeezed her tight, until her breathing slowed. Until Michelle looked into that room and saw what was really there.