The First Cut by Dianne Emley

loaded with barware and stemware. They entered a large, sunny kitchen. An island with a cooktop and sink was flanked by bar stools. A wood block on the stone counter was crammed with expensive cutlery. A window behind the sink was open.
    The realtor spread his arms wide in a mockery of product demonstration. “Here’s the updated gourmet kitchen. No expense spared. Granite and stainless steel. Top of the line. Destined to look as out-of-date in ten years as avocado-colored appliances.”
    His voice became conspiratorial. “Do you know what the buyers are paying for this place?”
    Vining again got the feeling that something was amiss.
    She moved to the back door, passing on the inside of the island, opposite where he was standing. She looked out the door window at a driveway that led to a detached garage. She flipped open the bolt lock and put her hand on the doorknob.
    “I’ll take a look around outside.”
    He had moved to stand in front of the refrigerator.
    The refrigerator door was covered with photos, invitations, calendars, and notes held with cute magnets—central command for a busy life. The owners hadn’t bothered to clear them away to show the house. Maybe they thought it looked homey. Descending one side were dozens of tiny magnets. Vining recognized them as poetry magnets comprised of words in black type on a white background that one formed into sentences. She and Emily had a set then and used to have fun taking turns being creative. When Vining later threw them out, the reason she’d given Emily was that she was tired of the refrigerator looking cluttered.
    The realtor shook his head and smiled at something he saw there, as delighted as if he’d found an Easter egg in December.
    This was officially creepy, Vining decided. She keyed her choker mike clipped to the front collar of her shirt and spoke quietly with her head bent close, broadcasting that she was okay, but to send nonemergency backup.
    “One Lincoln twenty-one. I’m code four, but send me a back code two.”
    With his thumb and forefinger, the realtor picked off a magnetized word and turned the printed side toward her. His eyes consumed her.
    “Look.”
    She couldn’t make out the word printed there. Her right hand was on the doorknob. She moved it to her sidearm.
    “What do you want, sir?”
    “Do you see this?” He was panting. Perspiration dotted his forehead and upper lip. “Officer Vining, I want you to see this.”
    Hearing him say her name sent a chill down her spine. Her nametag was on her shirt. He must have read it, but she didn’t recall seeing him do that.
    He walked toward her, holding out the magnet.
    “Stay where you are.” She held her palm toward him and with her right hand pulled her Glock loose from its holster.
    He complied.
    Easy does it, she thought.
    The last time she was alone in a room with a man and had pulled her weapon, she’d shot that man to death. That was five years ago, but it seemed like yesterday. She had started this job wanting to help people. Most cops retire without ever firing their gun in the line of duty. She thought that would be her story. She already had the blood of one man on her hands. This was different, she told herself. He wasn’t dirty with weapons and his hands were in full view. Watch the hands. The hands could get you killed.
    Easy does it. Everything’s fine.
    A car that sounded like a PPD cruiser stopped in front of the house. By the slight incline of his head, Vining knew that the realtor had heard it, too.
    He was ten feet away. The Police Academy instructors drilled in the twenty-foot rule, testing recruits by walking slightly within and beyond twenty feet of them, requiring salutes if closer than twenty and push-ups if the recruits misjudged. The size of the boundary became innate. It was critical. It could mean an officer’s life or death. The theory was that a suspect could run twenty feet and reach an officer by the time the officer could draw and use his