The Good Daughter: The gripping new bestselling thriller from a No. 1 author. Karin Slaughter

stopped. “Heller?”

      “What?”

      They stared at each other, both clearly confused.

      Ben broke the silence. “Heller is Judith Pinkman’s maiden name.”

      Charlie shook her aching head. Maybe she should’ve gone to the hospital after all.

      “All right.” Delia turned to another fresh page. “What was Mrs. Pinkman doing when you saw her at the end of the hallway?”

      Again, Charlie had to think back to find her place. “She screamed,” Charlie remembered. “Not then, but before. I’m sorry. I left that out. Before, when I was in Huck’s room, after he pulled me behind the filing cabinet, we heard a woman screaming. I don’t know if it was before or after the bell rang, but she screamed, ‘Help us.’”

      “Help us,” Delia confirmed.

      “Yes,” Charlie said. That was why she had started running, because she knew the excruciating desperation of waiting for someone, anyone, who could help make the world right again.

      “And so?” Delia said. “Mrs. Pinkman was where in the hallway?”

      “She was kneeling beside Lucy, holding her hand. She was praying. I held Lucy’s other hand. I looked into her eyes. She was still alive then. Her eyes were moving, her mouth opened.” Charlie tried to swallow down the grief. She had spent the last few hours reliving the girl’s death, but saying it out loud was too much. “Miss Heller said another prayer. Lucy’s hand let go of mine and …”

      “She passed?” Delia provided.

      Charlie squeezed her hand shut. All these years later, she could still recall what it felt like to hold Sam’s trembling fingers inside her own.

      She wasn’t sure which was harder to witness: a sudden, shocking death or the slow, deliberate way that Lucy Alexander had faded into nothing.

      Each existed in its own realm of the unbearable.

      Delia asked, “Do you need a moment?”

      Charlie let her silence answer the question. She stared past Ben’s shoulder into the mirror. For the first time since they’d locked her in the room, she studied her reflection. She’d dressed down on purpose to go to the school, not wanting to send the wrong message. Jeans, sneakers, a too-big, long-sleeved T-shirt. The faded Duke Devil logo was spattered with blood. Charlie’s face wasn’t any better. The red discoloration around her right eye was turning into a proper bruise. She pulled the wads of tissue out of her nose. The skin tore like a scab. Tears welled into her eyes.

      Delia said, “Take your time.”

      Charlie didn’t want to take her time. “I heard Huck telling the cop to put down his gun. He had a shotgun.” She remembered, “He tripped before. The cop with the shotgun. He stepped in some blood and …” She shook her head. She could still see the panic on the man’s face, the breathless sense of duty. He had been terrified, but like Charlie, he had run toward the danger instead of away.

      “I want you to look at these photographs.” Delia rifled through her bag again. She spread three photos on the table. Headshots. Three white men. Three crew cuts. Three thick necks. If they hadn’t been cops, they would’ve been mobsters.

      Charlie pointed to the one in the middle. “That’s who had the shotgun.”

      Delia said, “Officer Carlson.”

      Ed Carlson. He’d been a year ahead of Charlie at school. “Carlson was pointing the shotgun at Huck. Huck told him to take it easy, or something like that.” She pointed to another photo. The name below said RODGERS, but Charlie had never met him. She said, “Rodgers was there, too. He had a pistol.”

      “A pistol?”

      “A Glock 19,” Charlie said.

      “You know your weapons?”

      “Yes.” Charlie had spent the last twenty-eight years learning everything she could about every gun ever made.

      Delia asked, “Officers Carlson and Rodgers were pointing their weapons at whom?”

      “At Kelly Wilson, but Mr. Huckabee was on his knees in front of her, shielding her, so I guess that technically, they were pointing their weapons at him.”

      “And what was Kelly Wilson doing at this time?”

      Charlie realized she hadn’t mentioned the gun. “She had a revolver.”

      “Five shot? Six?”

      “I would only be guessing. It looked older. Not snub-nosed, but—” Charlie stopped. “Was there another gun? Another shooter?”

      “Why would you ask that?”

      “Because you asked how many shots were fired, and you asked how many bullets were in the revolver.”

      “I wouldn’t extrapolate from my questions, Ms. Quinn. At this point in the investigation, we can say with a high degree of certainty that there was not another gun and there was not another shooter.”

      Charlie pressed together her lips. Had she heard more than four gunshots in the beginning? Had she heard more than six?

      Suddenly, she wasn’t certain of anything.

      Delia said, “You said that Kelly Wilson had the revolver. What was she doing with it?”

      Charlie closed her eyes to give her brain a moment to reset back to the hallway. “Kelly was sitting on the floor like I said. Her back was to the wall. She had the revolver pointed at her chest, like this.” Charlie clasped her hands together, miming the way the girl had held the gun with both hands, her thumb looped inside the trigger guard. “She looked like she was going to kill herself.”

      “Her left thumb was inside the trigger guard?”

      Charlie looked at her hands. “Sorry, I’m only guessing. I’m left-handed. I don’t know which thumb was inside the trigger guard, but one of them was.”

      Delia continued writing. “And?”

      Charlie said, “Carlson and Rodgers were screaming for Kelly to put down the gun. They were freaked out. We were all freaked out. Except for Huck. I guess he’s seen combat or …” She didn’t speculate. “Huck had his hand out. He told Kelly to give him the revolver.”

      “Did Kelly Wilson make a statement at any time?”

      Charlie wasn’t going to validate that Kelly Wilson had spoken, because she didn’t trust the two men who had heard her words to relay them truthfully.

      She said, “Huck was negotiating Kelly’s surrender. She was complying.” Charlie’s gaze went back to the mirror, where she hoped Ken Coin was about to piss himself. “Kelly placed the revolver in Huck’s hand. She had completely relinquished it. That’s when Officer Rodgers shot Mr. Huckabee.”

      Ben opened his mouth to speak, but Delia held up her hand to stop him.

      “Where was he shot?” the agent asked.

      “Here.” Charlie indicated her bicep.

      “What was Kelly Wilson’s affect during this time?”

      “She looked dazed.” Charlie silently berated herself for answering the question. “That’s just a guess. I don’t know her. I’m not an expert. I can’t speak to her state of mind.”

      “Understood,” Delia said. “Was Mr. Huckabee unarmed when he was shot?”

      “Well, he had the revolver in his hand, but sideways, the way Kelly had put it there.”

      “Show me?” She took a Glock 45 out of her purse. She dropped the clip, pulled on the slide to eject the cartridge, and placed the gun on the table.

      Charlie didn’t want to take the Glock. She hated guns, even though she practiced