With his ear tuned to listen for Dena’s voice, his body bent forward at the waist, Britt drove one of the final nails: bam-bam-bam-click-bam. He froze. What had to be the most hopeless sound in the world—the metallic snap one hears when a round is chambered in a semi-automatic firearm—had come from directly behind him. He drew a deep breath, slowly raised himself to a standing position, and turned toward the sound.
“I thought that would get your attention,” she said. She was holding the handgun close to her body, steady.
“So it is you,” he said.
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