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I GRAB RIP’S HARNESS and leash and stick my Glock into the side pocket of the adorable new Faherty vest I bought at their store in Amagansett.

Rip and I walk toward Abraham’s Path, cutting through the Sportime tennis club.

Brigid and I used to play tennis on these courts, before she got sick, and before I got sick.

We stretch out the walk, eventually making our way over to Town Lane, then back up to Abraham’s Path and past the train tracks alongside which, on a gentle, good night like this, I once was involved in a shoot-out with Joe Champi.

Rip and I have moved farther away from the ocean by now. So the night has grown more quiet, which is perhaps why I’m then certain I hear footsteps behind me.

As does Rip, who lets out a low growl.

I shorten his leash as I turn, taking the Glock out of my pocket in the same motion.

No one there.

At least no one I can see.

Only some of the club’s lights are on at night.

I can’t remember when they close down the place for the winter months, but on this October night I am pretty sure it is soon.

I search the area behind us one last time, the courts and the gravel paths between them and the small clubhouse area, and still see nothing.

Hear nothing.

But Rip and I walk more quickly now, back across the club’s large front parking lot, back toward Abraham’s Path, more lights here and also across the street, where there’s a softball field and a court where kids play volleyball in the summer.

When we’re out on the sidewalk, I come to a stop, sure I hear the faint crunch of gravel from somewhere behind us.

“Who’s back there?” I yell.

Nothing.

I take one last look behind, gun still in my hand, and then Rip and I are jogging toward my street. Even with a gun in my hand, I feel like a scared little girl suddenly.

I hate feeling like a scared little girl.

But right before we make the left, I stop maybe on instinct, spin around, then see someone running across Abraham’s Path and toward the train tracks.

Not just running.

Sprinting.

And even though I know better, Rip and I now sprint in the same direction.

When we get to the tracks, I see a figure disappearing down the tracks in the distance, to the east.

I stop then and surprise myself by firing a shot into the sky.

“Hey, God!” I yell. “Duck!”

Then I fire again.

In the high heat of the moment I’m really surprised at how good that feels, my finger on the trigger and the brief explosion of noise, even as Rip starts barking his head off.

“What,” I tell him, crouching down to pat his back, “a girl’s not allowed to have a little fun?”

We continue walking back home. I feel a little less scared than I did a few minutes ago, thinking the long day and night is over, and that it’s time to at least try to sleep.

But it’s not.

Because when we get back to the house, Brigid is sitting on the front porch. When I get near her, I see that she’s been crying.

“I couldn’t find the damn key you gave me!” she says.

When I take a closer look in the porch light, I notice the darkening bruise on her left cheek.

“Who did this to you?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer at first.

Finally, almost inaudibly, she says, “Rob.”

“Rob hit you?”

She looks up at me then, ashamed, like a little girl caught doing something naughty.

“It’s not his fault,” my sister says. “I asked for it.”