When he finally turns, his eyes flick down to the gun, then back to my face. He doesn’t even get a word out before I pull the trigger. The blast knocks me back a step, my ears ringing, but it doesn’t hurt. Dave, though—Dave goes down immediately, his head splitting open like a fruit dropped from a great height. Blood and brain matter splash the walls, the floor, the couch. A chunk of his skull lands on the coffee table, and I take a moment to pick it up and toss it onto the rug.
