Clay hummed along with the radio, driving to Lucy’s. The gun was in a plastic bag on the seat beside him. He was going to give it back to her. The feeling it held his destiny was a trick, just like when he’d stolen church money. Divine inspiration was a lie. At least for him. But… Wouldn’t believing that be tantamount to the worst sin of all, despair? What kind of bitter pride was that, to think that he alone of all mankind was beyond the reach of grace? He looked at the gun. You argue well, my little 6-shot Jesuit. On the other hand, there is the eighth commandment. Clay swung his old Accord into a spot outside her building, checked himself in the rearview mirror (mistake) and grabbed the bag with the gun. He had just cracked the door when he saw two uniformed cops walking Lucy down the steps toward a black and white cruiser. He froze. Lucy went off. “What the hell do you think I am? A Dunkin’ Donuts? Shouldn’t you guys go back to putting surveillance cams in girls’ locker rooms or whatever the hell it is you do? How about finding the guy who shot Robert instead?” One of the uniforms grimaced but the other just said, “I’m sorry, Miss.” Clay thought, shut up, Lucy. “Are you clowns even on that case?” “We’re not allowed to say, Miss.” You had to admit these guys were professional, Clay thought, wincing. Lucy apparently was not impressed, however. “I was there when he was killed. If you can’t say it to me, who are you supposed to say it to?” “Yes, Miss,” the cop said, grimly. “I’m sure it’s frustrating.” “Frustrating? Frustrating is a girl in a wet t-shirt at a frat party. It does not describe getting my ass hauled downtown for nothing when Robert is dead.” “Watch your head, Miss,” one said insincerely, shoving her into the backseat of their car. “Who shot him? Why? And where is the god damn gun?” The door slammed, cutting her off, and then the cruiser swung out into the street, and took Lucy away.
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