The Next Accident - Lisa Gardner [40]
She went with him to the firing range from then on out, and under his patient tutelage she graduated from a .38 Chief’s Special to a .357 Magnum to a 9mm semiauto. 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!
No more fucking ballet. No more fucking anything. Just a white cross in beautiful, prestigious Arlington cemetery because her mother’s family was loaded with military connections and had somehow earned Bethie and her children the honor. Mandy and war heroes. Who would’ve thought?
Kimberly had barely been able to make it through the funeral. She had thought the irony might drive her mad, and she didn’t think her mother could take it if she had started laughing hysterically, so Kimberly had spent the whole service with her lips pressed into a bloodless line. And her father? Once again, it was so hard to know what her father thought.
He’d been calling her lately. Leaving gently inquiring messages because she wouldn’t pick up the phone. She didn’t return his calls. Not his calls, not her mother’s calls. Not anyone’s calls. Not now. Not yet. She didn’t know when. Maybe soon?
She didn’t like the anxiety attacks. They shamed her and she didn’t want to speak to her overly perceptive father when he might catch the fear in her voice.
Guess what, Dad? I couldn’t teach Mandy to be strong, but apparently she’s inspired me to be a flake. Whoo-hoo! Lucky you. Two fucked-up daughters.
She arrived at the shooting club. She pushed through the wooden door into the dimly lit lounge area, and the cooler air swept over her like a welcoming breeze. The club boasted a small, utilitarian lounge, empty this early in the morning, then the door leading to the cavernous shooting range. Kimberly didn’t look at the threadbare sofa or the tall display case filled with shooting medals or the line of animal-head trophies mounted on the wall. She was looking for him. Even as she told herself that wasn’t why she’d been so excited to get here first thing this morning, she was looking for the new gun pro, Doug James.
Thick brown hair, sprinkled with silver at the temples. Deep blue eyes, crinkled with laugh lines at the corners. A tall, well-toned body. A broad, hard-muscled chest. Doug James had started at the rifle association six months ago, and Kimberly wasn’t the only female who was suddenly very interested in lessons.
Not that she thought about him that way. She wasn’t like Mandy, always on the lookout for a man. She wasn’t like her mom, incapable of defining herself except through a man’s eyes. Anyway, Doug James was almost as old as her father. A happily married man, besides. And he was a terrific shot, of course. Had won a lot of shooting competitions, or so the rumors went.
All in all, he was a highly capable instructor, who was working wonders with her stance.
And a patient man. Kind. Had a way of looking at her, as if he was genuinely interested in what she was saying. Had a way of greeting her, as if he was made happier by her simply entering the room. Had a way of talking to her, as if he understood all the things she didn’t say . . . the nightmares she still had of her sister where she was in the car with Mandy, grabbing desperately at the wheel . . . the sense of isolation that would sweep