Lenore pulled a set of keys from her purse. She held her clutch under her arm as she unlocked the door. She turned on the lights. Sam narrowed her eyes as they protested against the sudden, bright light.
When her pupils finally adjusted, she was met with a welcoming, tidy space. Lenore’s office was very blue. Light blue walls. Dark blue carpet. Pastel blue couch with throw pillows in various shades of blue. She said, “I like blue.”
Sam stood by the couch. “It’s very nice.”
“You can sit down.”
“I think it’s better if I stand.”
“Suit yourself.” Lenore sat at her desk.
“My leg is—”
“No explanation needed.” She leaned down and inserted the USB drive into her computer. She turned the monitor around so that Sam could see. “You want me to leave?”
Sam did not want to be perceived as any ruder than before. “I’ll let you decide.”
“I’ll stay.” Lenore clicked open the thumb drive. “One file. Just a series of numbers. Can you see?”
Sam nodded. The extension read .mov, which meant the file was video. “Go ahead.”
Lenore clicked the file name.
The video opened.
She clicked the button to make it fill the screen.
The image could have been a photograph but for the numbers ticking in the corner: 07:58:47. A typical school hallway. Blue lockers. Tan tiled floor. The camera was tilted too far down. Only half of the hall was visible to the lens, about fifty feet of open space. The most distant point showed a thin slice of light that must have come from an open doorway. Posters were on the walls. Graffiti peppered the lockers. The entirety of the space was empty. The footage was grainy. The color was washed, more of a sepia tone.
Lenore turned up the volume on the speakers. “No sound.”
“Look,” Sam pointed to the monitor. As she’d watched, a piece of cinder block had spontaneously chipped away from the wall.
“Gunshot,” Lenore said.
Sam looked at the round bullet hole.
A man ran into the hallway.
He had entered the scene from behind the camera. His back was to them. White dress shirt. Dark pants. His hair was gray, styled in a typical man’s cut, short in the back, parted on the side.
He stopped, abruptly, hands out in front of him.
No, don’t.
Lenore sucked air through her teeth as the man jerked violently once, then again, then again.
Blood misted into the air.
He collapsed to the floor. Sam saw his face.
Douglas Pinkman.
Shot once in the chest. Twice in the head. A black hole replaced his right eye.
A river of blood began to flow around his body.
Sam felt her hand cover her mouth.
Lenore said, “Oh, God.”
A small figure had rounded the corner. Her back was to the lens.
Pigtails flopping on either side of her head.
Princess backpack, shoes that lighted up, arms swinging.
She came to an abrupt stop.
Mr. Pinkman. Dead on the floor.
Lucy Alexander fell quickly, landing on the incline of her backpack.
Her head lolled back. Her legs splayed. Her shoes pointed up at the ceiling.
The little girl tried in vain to raise her head. She touched her fingers to the open wound at her neck.
Her mouth was moving.
Judith Pinkman ran toward the camera. Her red shirt was a dull rust on the screen. She had her arms back, out to her sides, like a winged creature preparing to take flight. She passed her husband, then dropped to her knees beside Lucy.
“Look,” Lenore said.
Kelly Wilson finally came into the frame.
Distant. Slightly out of focus. The girl was at the most remote reaches of the camera’s lens. She was dressed in all black. Her greasy hair hung around her shoulders. Her eyes were wide. Her mouth hung open. She held the revolver in her right hand.
Like I said, the gun was in my hand.
Kelly sat down on the floor. The left half of her body was out of the camera’s reach. Her back was to the lockers. The revolver stayed at her side, resting on the ground. She stared straight ahead.
Lenore said, “A hair shy of eleven seconds from the moment the bullet went into the wall.” She pointed to the time in the corner. “I counted five shots total. One in the wall. Three in Pinkman. One in Lucy. That’s not what the simulation had on the news. They said Judith Pinkman was shot at twice, missed both times.”
Sam let herself look at Lucy again.
Judith Pinkman’s mouth was open as she screamed up at the ceiling.
Sam read the grieving woman’s lips.
Help me.
Somewhere in the school, Charlie was hearing the woman’s pleas.
Lenore held up the box of Kleenex on her desk.
Sam took some tissues. She wiped her eyes. She blew her nose. She watched Judith Pinkman cradle her hand behind Lucy’s head. She tried in vain to staunch the wound that had opened the little girl’s neck. Blood seeped through her fingers as if she had squeezed a sponge. The woman was clearly sobbing, wailing from grief.
Charlie came out of nowhere, leaping into the frame.
She was running up the hallway, toward the camera, toward Lucy and Mrs. Pinkman. The expression on her face was one of complete panic. She barely gave Douglas Pinkman more than a glance. Her knees hit the floor. She was sideways to the camera, her face clearly visible. She clutched Lucy Alexander’s hand. She spoke to the girl. She rocked back and forth as she tried to soothe both of them.
Sam had seen Charlie rock this way only once before.
“That’s Mason,” Lenore said. She blew her nose loudly.
Mason Huckabee had his back to the camera. He was clearly talking to Kelly, trying to coax away the gun. The girl was still seated, but she had slid farther down the hallway. Sam could no longer see her face. The only visible parts of Kelly’s body were her right leg and the hand that held the revolver.
The butt of the weapon rested on the floor.
Mason went down to his knees. He leaned forward. His arm went out
, palm open. He inched toward Kelly. Slowly, slowly. Sam could only imagine what he was saying. Give me the gun. Just hand it to me. You don’t have to do this.
Mason knew Kelly Wilson, had been her teacher, her tutor. He would know that she could be talked down.
On screen, he kept moving closer, and closer until, without warning, Kelly raised the gun out of the frame.
Sam’s stomach lurched.
Mason backed up quickly, putting distance between himself and Kelly.
“She turned the gun on herself,” Lenore said. “That’s why his hands are down instead of up.”
Sam’s gaze found Charlie again. She was beside Lucy, opposite Mrs. Pinkman. The older woman was looking up at the ceiling, eyes closed, clearly praying. Charlie sat cross-legged on the floor. Her hands were in her lap. She was rubbing together her fingers, staring at the blood as if she had never seen anything like it before.
Or perhaps she was thinking that she had seen something exactly like it before.
Charlie’s head slowly turned. She looked off camera. A shotgun slid across the floor, stopping a few feet away. Charlie did not move. Another second passed. The shotgun was scooped up by a policeman. He ran down the hall. His bulletproof vest flapped at his waist. He dropped to one knee and jammed the butt of the shotgun into his shoulder.
The weapon was pointed at Mason Huckabee, not Kelly Wilson.
Mason was on his knees, his back to Kelly, blocking the man’s shot.
All of this seemed lost on Charlie. She was looking back down at her hands, seemingly mesmerized by the blood. Her rocking had become less pronounced, more of a vibration moving through the body.
Lenore whispered, “My poor baby.”
Sam had to look away from Charlie. She found Mason still on his knees. Now, his back was to Kelly Wilson. The shotgun was pointed at his chest.
The shotgun was pointed at his chest.
Sam’s eyes skipped back to Charlie. She had not moved. She was still rocking. She looked to be in some type of fugue state. She did not seem to notice when a second police officer ran past her.
Sam followed the cop’s quick progress down the hall. As with the other officer, his back was to the camera, but Sam could see the gun in his hand. He came to a stop a few feet away from the other cop with a shotgun.