When he was inside his office, he closed the door. Then he called the one person who might be able to help him now, who might still be able to protect Mandy's grave.

He called Bethie, but somewhere in Philadelphia the phone merely rang and rang and rang.

Greenwich Village,New YorkCity

Kimberly left her apartment walking fast. She'd gotten up early – Wednesday was her weekly shooting lesson – and lately she'd come to really need her time on the firing range. She'd donned jeans and a casual T-shirt, stuck her fine long hair into a ponytail, then headed out to catch the commuter train to Jersey. Just like clockwork, she told herself. Wednesday morning just like any other Wednesday morning. Breathe deep. Inhale the smog.

It wasn't like any other Wednesday morning. For starters, she no longer had to show up for work. She had been so pale and jumpy yesterday afternoon, Dr. Andrews had grumpily ordered her to take the rest of the week off, her first vacation since Mandy's funeral. She could take her time today. Stop and smell the roses. Ease up a little, as her professor had instructed her to do.

Her footsteps remained compulsively quick, more of a run than a walk. She glanced over her shoulder more than any normal person should. And even though she absolutely, positively knew better, she was carrying her Glock.40 fully loaded and with the first round already chambered. Don't be this freaky, she kept telling herself.

She was doing it anyway.

Funny thing was, she didn't even feel that bad at the moment. No hairs standing up at the nape of her neck. No cold chills creeping down her spine. No sense of doom, which almost always preceded the anxiety attacks. The weather was balmy. The streets possessed enough people so that she was not isolated, while also being few enough people for her to maintain a large safety zone around herself. And even if someone did try to attack her, she found herself thinking, she was fully trained in self-defense as well as heavily armed. Kim-berry Quincy a victim? Not likely.

Yet she was grateful to arrive at Penn Station. She took a seat on the commuter train, scrutinized her fellow passengers, and finally concluded that none of them appeared the slightest bit interested in her. People read magazines. People watched the scenery go by. People ignored her in favor of their own lives. Who would've thought?

"You're a fucking psycho," she murmured, which finally did earn her a look from the guy sitting next to her. She thought of telling him that she was carrying a loaded gun, but given that he was heading into Jersey, he was probably carrying one, too. As Dr. Andrews liked to say, normality was a relative term.

The train slowed for her stop. Just for the hell of it, she gave the guy next to her a big huge grin. He immediately broke eye contact and assumed the submissive position. That made her feel better for the first time in days.

She got off the train with a lighter step and was immediately assaulted by 100 percent humidity. Ah, another lovely Jersey day.

She hefted her bag onto her shoulder and started walking at a much more normal pace. New York City was behind her. The shooting range was only a few blocks away. New Jersey was hardly safer than Greenwich Village, but she did feel better here. Lighter. Free from some burden she couldn't name.

Kimberly had loved shooting from the first moment she'd cajoled her parents into letting her go. She'd started begging at eight. Her father had done the expected thing and told her to talk to her mother. Her mother had done the expected thing and said, absolutely not. Kimberly, however, had been possessed. Every time her father headed for the practice range, she started badgering. Four years later, on her twelfth birthday, her mother finally caved.

"Guns are loud, guns are violent, guns are evil. But if you won't take my word for it, fine! Go shoot yourself silly."

Mandy had wanted to go, too, but for a change their parents both agreed that handling guns would not be in Mandy's best interest. That suited Kimberly just fine. Mandy cried. Mandy got upset. Mandy was a big baby, and Kimberly was more than delighted to have an afternoon with her father all to herself.

She wasn't sure what her father thought. It was always hard to know what her father thought.

At the firing range, he carefully explained the basic rules for gun handling and firearms safety. She learned how to take apart a.38 Chiefs Special, name all the parts, clean all the parts, and then put them back together again. Then came lectures on always keeping the gun pointed at a safe target. Always keep the gun unloaded until ready to fire. Always keep the safety on until ready to fire. Always wear earplugs and eye protection. Always listen to the range officer. Load when he says load, fire when he says fire, and cease firing when he says cease fire.

Then at long last, her father let her aim the.38

Chiefs Special at a paper target and practice dry firing, while he stood behind her and adjusted her aim. She remembered the muffled sound of his voice next to her ear, more like a deep rumble than words. She remembered being anxious to get to live ammunition after two hours of straight lectures, and her father, exhibiting his typical, maddening calm.

"A gun is not a toy. On its own, a gun is not even a weapon. It's an inanimate object. It is up to you to bring it to life and use it responsibly. Whose job is it to use it responsibly?"

"Mine!"

"Very good. Now let's go through it one more time…"

It had taken four trips to the firing range before he let her fire live rounds. He placed the target at fifteen feet. She hit it with a respectable six shots, four clustered in the middle. She promptly dropped her pistol, jerked off her goggles, and threw her arms around her father's neck.

"I did it, I did it, I did it! Daddy, I did it!"

And her father said, "Don't ever throw down your firearm like that! It could go off and hit someone. First put on the safety, then set down the gun and step away from the firing line. Remember, you must treat your pistol responsibly."

She had been deflated. Maybe even tears flooded her eyes. She didn't remember anymore. She just recalled the curious change that came over her father's face. He looked at her crestfallen expression and perhaps he finally heard his own words, because his features suddenly shifted.

He said quietly, "You know what, Kimmy? That was great shooting. You did a wonderful job. And sometimes… sometimes your father is a real ass."

She had never heard her father call himself an ass before. She was pretty sure that was one of the words she was never supposed to repeat. And she liked that. That made it special. Their first real father-daughter moment. She could shoot a gun. And sometimes Daddy was a real ass.

She went with him to the firing range from then on out, and under his patient tutelage she graduated from a.38 Chiefs Special to a.357 Magnum to a 9mm semi-auto. As a form of silent protest, her mother enrolled her in ballet. Kimberly attended two lessons before coming home and announcing, "Fuck ballet! I want a rifle."

That got her mouth washed out with soap and no TV for a week, but was still worth every syllable. Even Mandy had been impressed. In a rare show of support, she'd spent the next few weeks saying fuck everything, and together they went through two bars of Ivory soap. A curious, delirious month, back in the days when the four of them had been a family.

Funny the things she hadn't thought about in a while. Funny the way the memory made her breathe hard now, like someone had socked her in the stomach, like someone was slowly squeezing her chest.

Dammit, Mandy. You couldn't stay out of the driver's seat? Sure, quitting drinking is hard, but you could've at least stayed off the roads!