Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a man walking casually toward her. He looked innocuous enough, dressed in a pullover and slacks, but black combat boots showed beneath the hems.
“Marcella Riggins?” he asked, continuing his slow advance.
She turned toward him. “Do I know you?”
“No, ma’am,” he said with a smile. “But I was hoping we could talk.”
“About what?” she asked.
His smile stiffened, set. “About what happened the other night.”
“What happened . . .” she echoed, as if wracking her memory. “Do you mean when my husband tried to burn our house down around me? Or when I melted his face off with my bare hands?”
The man’s expression stayed steady, even. His steps slowed, but didn’t stop, each stride closing the gap between them.
“I think you should stay there . . .” Marcella drew the gun from her bag, not all the way, just enough to let him see the chrome polish along the back of the barrel.
“Come on, now,” he said, lifting his hands as if she were a wild animal, something to be corralled. “You don’t want to make a scene.”
Marcella tipped her head. “What makes you think that?”
She swung the gun up and fired.
Her first shot took the man in the knee.
He gasped, buckled, and before he could even reach for the weapon holstered at his ankle, she fired a second shot into his head.