Robin Jenkins and Christina Clark find the dead body of Violet Hayes in their apartment. They strike an investigation of their own and enlist the help of their neighbor, Finn Dallas.
[Full summary inside]
#1 in edgeofyourseat
#6 in murdermystery
#8...
AN: aaand we're back to this... you know the drill by now. tw: child abuse, mention of off-screen sexual abuse. 6.2K word chapter coming your way SORRY!
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January 2005
Long Game
THE OPEN FIELD WAS MERELY LIGHTENED with a harsh white light emitted from a LED bar, the dirt beneath Robin's shoes seeming to adopt a grey color as opposed to the dark brown she would catch on the surface under the beam of the sun.
The hessian sack was slumped several feet away from where she stood, riddled with holes around the red cross marked on its top center.
She ground her jaw when her shoulder twinged. It felt like almost an hour since she'd been standing in the same rigid stance, right shoulder back and hands wrapped around the rifle, fingers tight against the steel weaponry.
"Your aim is wrong," he remarked from next to her, voice steady. "You need to rest the back of it against your shoulder, you'll feel less of the weight and your body will absorb the recoil."
Robin rolled her shoulder, pulling the weapon up and sliding it back to rest it on the joint of her shoulder and upper arm.
"Good. Now, lean against the stock. Yes. Relax but keep the grip firm."
She did as ordered, realizing she had a better sight of her target instead of the blurry shot she had been working with. At the sight of the red mark, a surge of adrenaline curled her finger and squeezed the trigger, the sound of the bullet blasting trickled through her ear, muffling the drill of the fabric before her.
Missed.
"Shoot when you're ready. Don't act on impulse."
A second, third, fourth shot, and still no result. He commanded her to shoot again, and again. Her seventh barely grazed the tail of the cross. Her eyes strained open, unblinking as she aimed and fired, aimed and fired. The sudden resolve to reach its center preceded breathing.
"Halt."
She stopped, pushing herself upright and twisting to face him. His chin tipped up. This is the part where she should draw her weapon back. She didn't. A gripping feeling tightened the muscles in her arms, rendering her frozen on the spot. Her eyes flicked down to the barrel, and, consumed by the uninhibited rush, she pulled the rifle up and aimed.
His lip twitched up, only briefly. Slowly, steadily, he approached her. Her face remained vacant, eyes fixed through the lens, and her fingers numb.
He crouched down to her height, his finger touching the muzzle, pulling the barrel down.
"Maybe one day," was all he said in a soft murmur, looking at her with eyes full of distant longing. He blinked, and it vanished. "Hand it over." She did. "Stand by the target." She was already moving.
