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FIFTY-EIGHT

MIDNIGHT. MY SECOND GLASS of wine. I won’t have another. I could use a little liquid courage for what’s coming, but I want a clear head.

My phone buzzes. I pick it up, expecting it to be David. It’s not.

“Kyle,” I say.

“Marcie, you’re okay?” His voice urgent, breathless.

“Yeah — yes, I’m —”

“I’m on my way to you,” he says. “I’m bringing Officer Risely with me.”

I get to my feet. “What … what hap —”

“Marcie, listen to me. David’s been shot. He’s in an ambulance on his way to St. Benedict’s.”

“He …” I search for words. “Is he —”

“He’s lost a lot of blood. That’s all I know. Officer Risely will stay at your house with the kids. I’m almost to you.”

“I …” Through the window, I see the reflections of sirens flashing. On automatic pilot, I grab a coat and head to the front door. A female police officer rushes up the front walkway.

“Two kids,” I say.

“Grace and Lincoln — I know,” she says. “If they wake up, I’ll have them call you first thing. Now go. We’ll be fine here.”

I race to the car and hop in the front seat.

“Is he alive?” I say to Kyle.

“I don’t know. Buckle up,” he says before he floors the accelerator.