Finch had flung herself between us, pistol gripped in both hands, barrel aimed straight at May’s skull. Finch was old, but still fast. I was faster. I swung my hammer without thinking, without hesitating, and Finch’s shot went wide. I’m sorry, I told her afterward, over and over, it was an accident. But the head of my hammer was buried neatly in her temple; good aim, for an accident.
