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Natalie

Natalie is pretty fast, but her father flies up those stairs.

Broken glass crunches under their feet as she tears upward toward the sound of someone screaming. And the dog is making unholy noises, like a creature from a horror film.

Her father clears the stairs first. “Lickie, OFF!” he shouts.

Then her mother’s voice says something unintelligible.

Natalie is so scared that her legs almost give out. She makes it to the third floor a few seconds after Harrison.

There’s blood everywhere. It’s literally flowing toward her shoes, and soaking Beatrice’s hair. And there’s a smell. Like wet pennies.

Her mother is lying haphazardly on the floor, one arm chained to the balusters, the other hand bent in a sickening way that hands shouldn’t bend. Her eyes are closed, but her chest rises and falls in great gasps.

Natalie hears sirens.

Her father’s voice breaks through her terror. “Natalie, look at me.”

She turns her head toward the steadiness of his voice, finding his gray-eyed gaze and holding it.

“Go downstairs and let the cops in. Tell them to call an ambulance and that there’s a gun here on the third floor. Go now.”

She looks once again at her mom, who’s obviously in pain. But her chest rises reassuringly with each new breath.

Then she turns and runs to do what her father asked.