Michael shouted. Stephanie cried out. The door was kicked open. Two men in uniform swarmed in. Guns drawn. Benedict’s finest. But it was all for naught. The time for action was passed. Things now could not be changed. The stink of cordite filled the office. Carrie’s young body fell to the floor. Ruined. Blood spatters covered walls, rugs, furniture, and a good portion of both Stephanie and Michael. It took Michael a scant flicker of time to comprehend what he had just seen. Smoke still wisped from the barrel. Carrie’s body had fallen awkwardly; face up, one leg was twisted wrong, her head lolled to the left. One hand still held the suicide weapon, the other reaching out, as if for a savior. One policeman, a tall, stout-looking young man, rushed towards Michael and Stephanie. He began asking if they were okay. Michael wasn’t sure what it was that Stephanie said, it sounded like mere mumbling. For that matter, he wasn’t sure what he’d said either. Michael looked into the kid’s face.
