Split Second by Alex Kava

her the pieces of furniture which mattered most. Her father’s antique rolltop desk had made the trip without a scratch. She patted the back of her comfortable La-Z-Boy recliner. It and the brass reading lamp had been exiled long ago to the condo’s den, because Greg said it didn’t match the leather sofa and chairs in the living room. Maggie couldn’t recall much living having ever occurred on them.
    She remembered when they had first bought the set. She had tried to break it in with some passionate memories. Instead of letting his body respond to her flirtatious suggestions, Greg had been horrified and angered by the idea.
    “Do you know how easily leather stains?” He had scolded her as though she was a child spilling Kool-Aid instead of a grown woman initiating sex with her husband.
    No, it was easy to leave those pieces behind. As long as the memory of their crumbling marriage stayed with them. She pulled out a small duffel bag from the pile in the corner and set it on the desk next to her laptop. Earlier she had opened all the windows to remove the stale, warm air. As the sun set behind the line of trees, a moist but cool breeze swirled into the room.
    She unzipped the duffel bag and carefully removed her holstered Smith & Wesson .38 revolver. She liked the way the pistol fit in her hands. There was a familiarity and ease, like the touch of an old friend. While other agents had upgraded to more powerful and automatic weapons, Maggie drew comfort from the gun she knew best. The same gun with which she had learned.
    She had depended on it numerous times, and though it had only six rounds compared to an automatic’s sixteen, she knew she could count on all six without any jamming. As a newbie—as FBI recruits were called—she had watched an agent go down, helpless with a Sig-Sauer 9 mm and a magazine half-full, but jammed and useless.
    She pulled out of the bag her FBI badge in its leather holder. She laid both it and the Smith & Wesson on the desk, almost reverently, alongside the Glock 40 caliber found earlier in the desk drawer. Also in the duffel bag was her forensic kit, a small black pouch that included an odd assortment of things she had learned over the years never to be without.
    She left the forensic kit safely tucked in place, zipped the duffel bag and slid it under the desk. For some reason, having these things close by—her guns and badge—made her feel secure, complete. They had become symbols of who she was. They made this feel more like home than any of the possessions she and Greg had spent their adult lives collecting. Ironically, these things that meant so much to her were also the reasons she could no longer be married to her husband. Greg had made it quite clear that Maggie needed to choose either him or the FBI. How could he not realize that what he was asking her to do was like asking her to cut off her right arm?
    She traced a finger over the leather case of her badge, waiting for some sign of regret. But when none came, it didn’t necessarily make her feel any better. The impending divorce brought sadness, but no regret. She and Greg had become strangers. Why hadn’t she seen that a year ago when she lost her wedding ring and hadn’t felt compelled to replace it?
    Maggie swiped at strands of hair that stuck to her forehead and the back of her neck. Its dampness reminded her that she needed a shower. The front of her T-shirt was dirty and stained. Her arms were marred with black and purple scuffs. She rubbed at one to discover a bruise instead of dirt. Just as she began to search for her newly installed phone, she noticed a police cruiser whiz by.
    She found the phone under a stack of papers. She dialed from memory and waited patiently, knowing it would take more than five or six rings.
    “Dr. Patterson.”
    “Gwen, it’s Maggie.”
    “Hey, how the hell are you? Did you get moved in?”
    “Let’s just say my stuff is moved.” She noticed the Stafford County Coroner’s van drive