Stillhouse Lake by Rachel Caine EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: Rachel Caine
- Publish Date: July 1, 2017
- Language: English
- Genre: Serial Killer, Psychology, Thriller
- Format: PDF/ePub
- Size: 1 MB
- Pages: 300
- ISBN: 1477848665
GWEN PROCTOR
FOUR YEARS LATER
Stillhouse Lake, Tennessee
“Begin.”
I take a deep breath that reeks of burned gunpowder and old sweat, set
my stance, focus, and pull the trigger. I keep my body balanced for the shock.
Some people blink involuntarily with every shot; I’ve discovered that I simply
don’t. It isn’t training, just biology, but it makes me feel that much more in
control. I’m grateful for the edge.
The heavy, powerful .357 roars and bucks, sending familiar shocks
through me, but I’m not focused on the noise or the kick. Only the target at
the end of the range. If noise distracted me, the constant din of other shooters
—men, women, and even a few teens at the other stations—would have
already spoiled my aim. The steady roar of gunfire, even through the thick
muffle of ear protection, sounds like a particularly violent, constant storm.
I finish firing, release the cylinder, remove the empty shells, and set the
gun on the range rest with the wheel still open, muzzle pointed downrange.
Then I remove my eye protection and put the glasses down. “Done.”
From behind me, the range instructor says, “Step back, please.” I do. He
picks up and examines my weapon, nods, and hits the switch to bring the
target forward. “Your safety’s excellent.” He has his voice pitched loudly to
be heard over the noise and the barrier of hearing protection we both wear. It’s
already a little hoarse; he spends most of his day shouting.
“Here’s hoping my accuracy is, too,” I yell back.
But I already know it is. I can see it before the paper target is halfway
back on the glide. Empty holes fluttering, all in the tight red ring.
“Center mass,” the instructor says, giving me a thumbs-up. “That’s a
letter-perfect pass. Good job, Ms. Proctor.”
“Thank you for making it so painless,” I say in turn. He steps back and
gives me space, and I close the cylinder and replace the weapon in its zipped
bag. Safe.
“We’ll get your scores in to the state office, and you should get your
carry permit in no time.” The instructor is a young man with a tight burr
haircut, former military. He has a soft, blurred accent that, though Southern,
doesn’t have the sharper lilt of Tennessee . . . Georgia, I think. Nice young
man, at least ten years below the age I’d ever consider dating. If I dated. He’s
unfailingly polite. I am Ms. Proctor, always.
He shakes hands with me, and I grin back. “See you next time, Javi.”
Privilege of my age and gender. I get to use his first name. I said Mr. Esparza
for the first solid month, until he gently corrected me.
“Next time—” Something catches his attention, and his easy calm shifts
to sudden alertness. His focus goes down the line, and he bellows out, “Cease
fire! Cease fire!”
I feel a sweep of adrenaline ping every nerve, and I go very still,
assessing, but this isn’t about me. Raggedly, all the percussive noise of the
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