50
Three?
It sounded like three, but I couldn’t be sure, with the concussion still echoing in my ears. I stood carefully, keeping both hands on my weapon this time, and crossed the dining room to stand over a motionless Eddie. He’d fallen backwards, head just a few feet from the burning chair but still barely discernible in the flickering light. Had I seen a mist of blood in the air after I fired? No, it was too dark—I’d just imagined it. Focus. I pointed my gun at Eddie while I traced the contours of his body with my foot, along the left side from his foot to his waist to his arm, and finally to the hand at the end of it. There was a hard object there. I kicked the gun away, back toward the kitchen, just in case.
Three shots.
I ran through the kitchen, past another small fire, to the
