“Davis,” Hattie said, her voice pleading. “You have to go to the police. Tell them how it happened. An accident, like you said.”
“No. They’d put me in prison. You know what that’d do to my little girl? You know what that’s like, right, Hattie? Everyone talking about you, pointing at you. The humiliation. The shame. I can’t put Ally through that.”
He took a step toward Hattie, and Ribsy growled a warning. Davis pulled a pistol from the pocket of his jeans and looked at it, as though he were seeing it for the first time. His hands shaking, first he brought the gun to his head, then pointed it at her.
“Davis, no,” Hattie yelled.
Ribsy leapt at Davis and the leash handle flew from her hands. He threw himself at the stranger, his barking frenzied and high-pitched. Davis batted at the dog with his free hand, and Ribsy snapped at him, running around him, jumping onto his back, ripping at his shirt. Davis slapped ineffectively, making contact with the dog’s flank, and Ribsy circled around, wildly flinging his body at his attacker.
Davis stumbled briefly, his feet tangled in the leash wrapped around his legs, regained his balance, and then, struck at the dog with his gun hand. Hattie screamed again, and Ribsy sank his jaws into his attacker’s bandaged hand. Davis screeched in pain and as though in slow motion, he tripped and fell onto the floor.
Hattie stared in horror as Davis sat up and raised the gun and pointed it at Ribsy. She looked wildly around. A wheelbarrow with sacks of concrete mix stood nearby with a shovel balanced on top of the stack. She grabbed the shovel and blindly struck out at him with the back of it, raining blows at his head, his shoulders, and his abdomen. When he tried to shield his face with his arms, she slammed him again. Davis howled, and the pistol flew across the room, skidding a few feet away from Hattie.
She lunged for the gun, then stood and pointed it at him. “Don’t you fucking touch my dog again.”
* * *
“Ribsy, come!” Hattie said. He was crouched by Davis’s feet, growling. The dog looked back at her, hesitated, then trotted over to her side. She reached down and scratched his ears, keeping the gun trained on Davis.
Her legs were wobbling badly. She spied an empty five-gallon bucket of joint compound near the wheelbarrow and collapsed on top of it. Then she pulled out her phone.
Davis was moaning softly, cradling his bleeding hand close to his chest. “What are you doing?”
“Calling the detective who’s been looking for you.”
But before she could do that, her phone rang. It was Mo.
“You were supposed to call me back,” he said. “I was worried. Are you okay?”
“I am now,” she said, her voice cracking with emotion. “But I need to hang up and call the police.”
“Hattie? Where are you?”
“At the house next door. I’ll call you later. I swear.”
“Call nine-one-one. I’m coming out there.”
She ended the call but instead of dialing 911, she called Makarowicz.
“Hey,” she said, keeping the gun trained on Davis. “I found your guy.”
“You mean Hoffman? You found Davis Hoffman? Where are you? Is he still there? Are you okay?”
“I’m at that house just north of mine. The one under construction. I think he was hiding out here. Anyway, he pulled a gun on me, but then Ribsy jumped him, and I kinda beat him up with a shovel. Davis, I mean, not Ribsy. How soon can you get here?”
“On my way,” Makarowicz said.
* * *
“I would never have shot you,” Davis said. “You know me, Hattie. I would never.”
Hattie stared at him. Her thoughts flashed back to their early teen years. She remembered halcyon summer days at the beach, or out on Davis’s boat, the three of them, Hattie, Hank, and Davis.
“No. I don’t know you at all. I thought we were friends. You, me, Hank.”
“Truthfully? It was never about Hank. I just wanted to be close to you, Hattie.”
“What about Elise?” she asked.
“Elise was always the consolation prize. She knew it, I knew it. She wanted a kid; we both thought it would fix things. It didn’t. Nothing can fix me because I’m broken.”
His liquid brown eyes were pleading. “I came out here to kill myself. But there were too many people around. So I hid over here. Waiting for the right time. Tonight was the night. You should have let me do it.”
“Let you take the easy way out? Not on your life,” she said. Her hands were trembling so badly she had to prop her elbows up on her knees and grip the pistol with both hands.