Unlucky 13 by James Patterson and Maxine Paetro

flashed back and forth between me and Conklin and skipped right over the downed man on the floor.
    Conklin holstered his gun.I covered him as he walked slowly toward the woman, showing her his empty hands.
    “I’m just coming to help you. What’s your name?”
    “Holly.”
    “Okay, Holly. I’m Richie.”
    One of Conklin’s many strengths is that he has a terrific way with women. It’s a real gift, that’s for sure.
    I said, “I’m just going to walk behind you, Holly.”
    She looked at me as I edged around her, and Conklin saw his chance.He stepped forward and, grabbing the gun, cracked it open and knocked out the remaining shell and threw the gun onto the couch.
    “There we go,” he said. “Now we can talk. Holly, tell me what happened here.”

CHAPTER 28
    ONCE HOLLY WAS disarmed, my breathing and my heartbeat returned to something like normal. I was not just relieved that no guns had gone off. I also wanted Holly to be all right.
    I already had a pretty good idea what had happened in this house. Holly’s husband had been abusing her and had introduced a loaded shotgun into the fight. He’d been pointing that gun at her when she surprisedhim, grabbed the weapon, and got off a shot.
    Very likely Holly had saved her own life.
    But that didn’t mean that she wouldn’t have to prove self-defense in court. Her crappy life wouldn’t get better for some time, if ever.
    I retraced my steps and bent to the man bleeding out on the floor. He was stocky, maybe in his thirties, and hadtattoos on his arms and neck. A mixture of blood and airbubbled through what remained of his nose and lower jaw. He was alive. But he might not want to survive what he was facing—surgery, pain, food through a straw—while in jail.
    I called dispatch and was told the ambulance was only three minutes out. I said that the situation was under control, that the EMTs could come directly into the house, and I asked for Child Protective Services.
    Conklin ledHolly to a plaid tub chair and sat on the couch across from her. She was babbling incoherently when I went down the hall in search of children.
    I found two youngsters in the smaller of the two bedrooms, hiding between a bed and the wall. They popped up when I called, “Hey there.”
    I thought the little girl was about four. The boy looked eight. The little girl looked me in the eye, then suckedin a deep breath and screamed before crawling under the bed.
    The boy dried his face with his T-shirt and sputtered, “Are you the police?”
    “You called us, right?”
    I showed him the badge hanging from a chain around my neck.
    “I’m Sergeant Boxer, but you can call me Lindsay. What’s your name?”
    “Leon. Leon Restrepo. That’s Cissy.”
    “Do you know how many people are in the house?”
    “Yes.”
    “Canyou tell me?” I asked.
    He pointed out to the living room. “Her. Him. Me and Cissy.”
    “Is Holly your mother?”
    Leon nodded his head. Tears started flowing down his cheeks.
    “Okay, Leon. Okay. Can you tell me what happened here?”
    “She’s always hating on him,” the little boy said. “She’s always threatening to shoot him, and my dad, he always says, ‘She’s just talking.’ But she killed him, didn’tshe?”
    “No, no, your dad is alive, but he’s hurt.”
    “Oh, man, this is so bad.”
    Leon fell across the bed and cried like he would never stop. Between his sobs, he cried, “I love my dad,” he said. “I love my dad so much. Please don’t let him die.”

CHAPTER 29
    I OPENED THE front door to our apartment on Lake Street, and Martha came tearing around the corner from the living room. She threw her front feet hard against my solar plexus and sang her special welcome-home anthem.
    I stooped, kissed her, ruffled her coat, and followed her back to the room where my husband was rising from his big chair, coming toward me, arms open.
    “Maria Teresajust left. Julie’s had her bottle and her bath and she’s sleeping,” he said, giving me the