The stairs were narrow, carpeted, and dim. At the top, a small landing opened into a loft hallway with two doors. One appeared to be a bedroom. The other was partly open, showing shelves and boxes — maybe a storage room.
Alicia’s flashlight moved slowly across the walls.
There was a bullet hole in the ceiling above the landing.
The shot had gone upward.
Not downward.
That mattered.
It meant the person upstairs had fired into the ceiling, intentionally or in panic, or the gun had gone off during a struggle. It also meant the officers downstairs had not been the target. Not that it made the situation safe. A frightened or desperate armed suspect was dangerous in any direction.
Alicia reached the landing.
“Police,” she called. “Noah, if you can hear me, stay quiet. We’re here to help.”
A small sound came from the room on the right.
Not speech.
A sniffle.
Alicia’s chest tightened.
“Derek,” she called. “We know there’s a child here. Put the gun down and talk to us.”
From inside the bedroom, a male voice answered.
“You should’ve stayed outside.”
Alicia stopped.
Brennan froze behind her.
The voice was close.
Not loud.
Young. Maybe thirties. Shaking with anger or fear.
Alicia said, “Derek, my name is Officer Grant. I don’t want anyone else hurt tonight.”
A laugh came from the room.
It was short and broken.
“She called you?”
“Emma needs help,” Alicia said. “Noah needs help.”
“She was leaving.”
That sentence came out like an accusation against the universe.
“She was taking my son.”
Alicia kept her voice even.
“Is Noah in the bedroom with you?”
No answer.
Alicia could see the bedroom door was open about eight inches. A warm lamp glowed inside. Something moved near the floor.
Then came a child’s voice.
“Mommy?”
Alicia felt Brennan shift behind her.
Derek spoke sharply.
“Be quiet.”
The child went silent.
Alicia’s tone hardened by one degree.
“Derek, listen carefully. No one is going to rush you if you keep your hands visible and put the gun down.”
“You already rushed in.”
“We came because Emma was hurt.”
“She did this.”
It was always there, Alicia thought. In these houses, in these calls, in these rooms where control had turned violent, the same line always arrived.
She did this.
Never I kicked the door.
Never I brought the gun.
Never I pulled the trigger.
Never I scared a child into hiding.
She did this.
Alicia took one careful step closer.
“Derek, I need to see Noah.”
“No.”
“Is he hurt?”
“No.”
“Then let him come out.”
“No.”
There was movement inside the room. A soft thud. A child’s whimper.
Alicia’s hand tightened on her grip.
Below, Tyler’s voice carried faintly as he spoke to Emma, trying to keep her alive.
Outside, sirens multiplied.
Inside, Derek said, “If she dies, it’s her fault.”
Alicia knew then that they were not dealing with panic alone.
They were dealing with a man trying to turn violence into blame before the blood downstairs had even dried.
Chapter 3: The shot upstairs
Negotiations began before the negotiators arrived.
That happens more often than people think. Patrol officers are usually the first voices a desperate person hears. The first tone. The first boundary. The first chance to slow a situation down before specialists with vests and rifles and maps can take over.
Alicia stayed near the landing, careful not to expose too much of herself to the bedroom doorway. Brennan remained behind her. Lee held the base of the stairs. Tyler stayed with Emma, pressing gauze into the wound and watching her breathing become shallower.
“Derek,” Alicia said, “tell me where the gun is.”
Silence.
“Derek.”
“You mean my gun?”
“I mean the gun that went off.”
“She bought it,” he said. “Not me.”
That answer mattered. Alicia noticed the deflection.
“Where is it now?”