The Agent Next Door by Adrienne Bell

the general direction of the
paper target off in the distance, braced herself, and pulled back
hard.
    A puff of brown dirt flew into the air as the
bullet dug into the dirt twenty feet in front of her.
    Shoot.
    “Good,” he said. “Again, but this time try to
relax.”
    Now she was going to kick him. Just as
soon as she’d emptied the magazine.
    She pulled back the trigger again. The same
dust cloud appeared as the recoil swept up her locked arms. It
wasn’t as painful as she’d feared it would be, but it wasn’t all
that pleasant either.
    “I’m no good at this,” Erin said, frustration
surging.
    “You’re doing fine. Just—”
    “Relax. I know.”
    Another shot. The same result.
    “No,” Erin said, putting the gun back down in
front of her. “I’m done. I can’t do this.”
    John turned her around. She wasn’t sure what
expression she expected to see on his face—anger, frustration
maybe—but compassion wasn’t it. He knew just how hard this was for
her. He’d have to be a fool not to.
    “Yes, you can.” He swept his hands up and
down her arms, as if hoping some of his resolve would literally rub
off on her. “You have to.”
    Erin’s heart sank. She turned back toward the
range so he wouldn’t see how misplaced his faith in her was, how
different they really were.
    John might not see anything more than a piece
of paper with a half dozen circles at the other end of the range,
but Erin saw something else. She saw a person. There was no use
pretending it was anything else. That’s what John was trying to
prepare her for after all.
    Because if she was ever forced to handle a
weapon outside of this range, it wasn’t going to be because she was
being attacked by paper circles. She would be shooting at a person.
Someone who walked and talked…and bled when he was shot.
    And Erin remembered all too well what that
blood looked like when it soaked a man’s shirt. When she closed her
eyes, she could still see how it had pooled, dark and shimmery, on
the boards below her father. She would never forget.
    And she knew she could never do it to another
person. Maybe not even if it meant saving herself.
    But she couldn’t let John know. For some
reason, he believed she was strong, and she didn’t want to let him
down. Not until she had too.
    Erin picked up the gun. She drew in a deep
breath, and slowly squeezed the trigger as she let it out. Then she
did it again. Then again. And again.

 
     
     
    Chapter 8
     
     
    Two hours crept by. It seemed like days since
John had pulled out of the gun range parking lot. Still even with
all that time, Erin wasn’t sure if she was feeling relief or dread
when he drove off Highway 99 onto the county road that led to the
prison.
    It had been years since she’d had the luxury
of gazing out the passenger window and getting lost in her
thoughts. Not since she was seven and Gran had been the one behind
the wheel. Erin had taken over driving duties when Gran had started
to get sick back when she was seventeen. By the time she was
twenty, Erin was left to make the trip on her own.
    She'd been doing it solo ever since. Having
someone else at the wheel meant that she had time to think. A lot
of it.
    She wasted most of it gazing out the tinted
windows of John's big black Range Rover as they sped by the central
California valley. Not that there was all the much to see. It was
starting to get late in the day, and a thick layer of fog had begun
to descend into the valley. So instead of losing herself in the
landscape, she spent the time worrying about what she was going to
tell her mother.
    For years, Erin had only shared the good
parts of her life—making the honor roll, getting her scholarships,
buying her house—and swallowed down all the bad—the bullying, the
break-ups, the loneliness.
    She’d always figured that her mother had
enough to deal with, living in prison and all. Erin had to be her
bright spot, her smiling face, her hope for the future.
    But she wasn’t