3:57 P.M.
Eight minutes ago, Parker Gray agreed to let his little sister, Moxie, buy a pretzel by herself. He’d given her a five-dollar bill, pointed her in the direction of Auntie Anne’s. She liked talking to people, and people liked talking to her. Seven years old, curly blond hair, and big blue eyes. Cute as a bug, everyone said.
Cute to everyone but Parker. She was more a weight around his neck. Today was teacher in-service training, which meant a day off from school. He should have been having fun. Instead he was a free babysitter, since his parents were both at work. But it wasn’t like he was going to sit at home watching episodes of Dora the Explorer. He could at least hang out with his friends while Moxie alternately played with his phone or stuffed her round little cheeks with treats.
Now his friends have already sprinted away. Everyone who can still run is running. Parker stands in the middle of the food court, spinning. Screaming over the shrill of the fire alarm. “Moxie! Moxie! Moxie!” Not seeing her anywhere. Auntie Anne’s is deserted. His mind plays a panicked loop. Is she hurt? Is his sister dead?
A bullet zips past his ear and buries itself into a pillar. The space has emptied out. Chairs overturned. Drinks puddled on the floor. Blood puddled on the floor. And people slumped in such awkward sprawls that he knows they must be dead.
But none of them is a little girl in a red coat.