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“I meant what I said, you know,” she tried again, quiet. “I was glad you apologized. I’ve missed—”

“Don’t,” I cut her off. My voice was low, but it hit like a slap. “Don’t talk to me like we’re friends. Like youknowme.”

“Idoknow you.”

“No,” I snapped, eyes narrowing. “You knewhim. The guy who gave a shit. The one who sat by your bedroom door when Az went on a rampage and Leighton was too rough with you and played nice so nobody scared you off. He’s dead, Victoria. You buried him with my brother.”

Her breath caught in her throat. I didn’t look at her. I didn’t want to see whatever expression was crawling across her face right now—hurt, guilt, hope—any of it. I didn’t want it. She went quiet again, but I could feel her watching me. Probably still searching for pieces of the man I’d been. Pathetic. She might as well have been looking for a ghost.

We were two stoplights away from the range when she finally spoke again, soft and hesitant.

“I don’t understand why you hate me so much.”

I barked a humorless laugh. “You don’t? That’s rich. You roll into our lives, start sleeping with everyone like you’ve gotsome God-given right, and then shit starts going sideways and people start dying. You think that’s a coincidence? ‘Cause I don’t.”

Her jaw clenched, but she didn’t say anything. Smart girl. When we pulled into the lot, I shifted the car into park but didn’t move. Just let the engine tick while I stared straight ahead.

“You’re not gonna go runnin’ back to Leighton or Craig or Az, tattling that I wasn’t sunshine and flowers today, right?” I said, voice like glass on asphalt. “Because I promise you, if you so much as breathe a word that I’ve been anything but polite, I’ll make sure youfeelit.”

She blinked, startled. “Joey—”

“Iwillmake you regret it,” I repeated, slow and steady. “So you keep your mouth shut and play the good little trainee, or I’ll stop pretending altogether.” Her face went pale. Not scared, just shocked. Like she hadn’t realized how far gone I was. Good. Let her see it. Let her finally stop trying to dig through the ashes for a man who wasn’t ever coming back. “Let’s go,” I said, getting out of the car and slamming the door shut behind me. “Lesson one. Keep your fucking fingeroffthe trigger unless you plan to shoot.”

She followed me into the lobby like a kicked dog. Head down, steps soft, silence loud. It should’ve satisfied me. Should’ve felt like a win. Instead, it pissed me off.

I could feel her behind me like a shadow, like a weight, like a lie waiting to be exposed. It wasn’t guilt. I didn’t feel guilty. Not for putting her in her place. Not for reminding her where she stood. This was something else. Something twisted. Like I was being baited. Everything about her was just another performance—designed to pull sympathy and make people trust her. So they wouldn’t see the knife until it was in their back.

The girl at the front desk, mid-twenties, with glossy lip balm and the kind of smile that had probably gotten her a lot of tips, looked up when we came in.

“Morning!” she chirped. “You booked lane four, right?” I gave her a curt nod. She glanced between us, smile widening, like this was a fucking date. “We’ve got a couple’s discount running right now—”

“No,” I said before Victoria could open her mouth. My voice was smooth. Friendly, even. “That’s not necessary.”

The girl blinked. “It’s free ammo for—”

“Still no,” I said, giving her the kind of look that made people stop asking questions.

I didn’t look at Victoria, but I felt her flinch. A little twitch beside me, like that’d actually landed somewhere soft.

Good.

We got our lane. Back corner, mostly soundproofed. I dumped the gear bag on the bench and opened it without a word. Victoria stood awkwardly off to the side until I tossed her a set of ear protection and a pair of safety glasses. She caught them, barely.

“You remember how to hold it, or are we starting from scratch?” I asked, pulling one of the pistols from the bag and checking the chamber out of habit. She didn’t answer, just stepped closer, hesitant, and reached for the gun like it might bite her. I grabbed her wrist before she could touch it. Not hard, just enough pressure to make a point.

“Wrong,” I said, tone clipped. “You don’t just reach for it like it’s a damn soda can. Respect the weapon. Always. Got it?”

Her eyes flicked up to mine. “Got it.” I handed it to her this time, grip-first. She took it. Her fingers curled around it almost right. Almost.

“Better,” I said. “You’re pinching the grip. It’s a gun, not a wine glass,Princess.” I moved around behind her and adjustedher stance with the same cold precision I’d use on a street guy who needed a refresher. Hands on her hips. Tap to her shoulder. A tug on her elbow to keep the line clean.

Her scent hit me then. Something floral. Leftover shampoo from Craig’s shower, maybe. I stepped back quickly, jaw tight.

“Safety?” I asked. She blinked, then fumbled for it. She clicked it on, but her grip shifted. I saw the mistake before it even happened.

“If that were loaded, you’d have just flagged your foot,” I snapped. “Try again. Grip first. Then safety.” She swallowed whatever she’d been about to say and did it over. Then I made her do it again. And again. Until her knuckles were red and her arms were trembling. Next, I pulled out the field strip mat and laid it down.

“You’re cleaning this before we fire it,” I said, placing the disassembled pistol parts in front of her. “And putting it back together after. You remember how?” She gave a slight nod, and I just stared until she sat down and started the process. It went okay at first. Hands steady. Movements tentative, but close to right. Until she got to the firing pin. She froze, and I waited. “Where’s the pin?” I asked, voice flat.