Two

AS frantic patrons flowed around me, I noticed something disturbing (apart from the gunfire and mass exodus). Not a single person had come down from the second floor.

I pushed my way through the crowd until I’d reached the bottom of our spiral staircase. It stood like a wrought-iron sculpture, still and empty. Peering up, I saw no one and quickly climbed three steps for height.

Across the retreating sea of humanity, Matt was calling 911. When our eyes met, I pointed to the ceiling, my meaning clear—

I’m going up!

Matt’s eyes bugged and he fervently shook his head.

I knew he wanted me to wait for the police, but I couldn’t sit by and do nothing. One of my other baristas, Dante Silva, was up there, along with a floor of innocent customers.

Was this a hostage situation? Or someone’s idea of a joke? Were people terrorized and injured? Or was this simply a misunderstanding?

Whatever was going down, I was determined to have a look, and (if possible) try to help. This was my coffeehouse, my staff, my responsibility.

“You take the service stairs!” I mouthed to Matt before starting my climb.

As I crested the top, I slowed my movements, entering the lounge in a crouched position. I spotted Dante’s shaved head and tattooed arms in a small crowd of gawking patrons.

Finally, I saw who they were gawking at.

A slender woman stood near the middle of the room. She was about my daughter’s age. Her white silk blouse looked virginal over her pink flowered skirt. Honey blond hair fell to her twenty-something shoulders.

I’d seen her several times in our coffeehouse. She seemed a shy type, always sat alone—though she sometimes conversed with Tucker Burton, my assistant manager. On those visits, her willowy arms had sported a fashionable handbag or tote. Tonight, those limbs appeared to be accessorized with a semiautomatic handgun.

“DON’T YOU EVER LAUGH AT ME AGAIN. GOT IT?!”

Her shrill threat was directed at a man in his thirties. Cornered and cowering in a high-back Victorian chair, the guy appeared to be dressing for success in a designer skinny suit and open-collared shirt. His brown hair was threaded with salon-golden highlights, and the cut looked trendy—close-cropped on the sides with the thick, longish top slicked back.

I’d seen this man a few times over the past week—in the company of several different women—though I couldn’t be sure, since his hands were raised in front of him and his head was turned at an angle that effectively hid his face.

“I’ll shoot you next time instead of the ceiling! How would you like that? A bullet right into your heart. Or maybe your smirking mouth. Or better yet, how about down there?”

Wisely, Mr. Bullseye elected not to take the multiple-choice quiz.

“Maybe I should shoot you down there. Then you’ll know how painful it is to be shot down!”

Tinker-Tinker!

The man’s smartphone had fallen onto the ground and lay near his expensive loafers, along with a pen and a few bits of paper. When it sprang to life, so did he. In a stunningly brainless move, he lunged to answer it.

“No! Don’t you touch that phone!!”

With a savage kick, the young woman sent the device flying. Then she slapped the man’s head with her gun. He gave a yelp and curled back farther into the chair.

“I won’t let you degrade another woman. I’d rather see you dead! Do you understand? DEAD!”

About then, I noticed something that alarmed me (even more than this mini Italian opera). My barista Dante began to inch closer to the female shooter and her loaded gun.

Bad idea.

This young woman hadn’t shot anyone. Not yet, anyway.

Was she disturbed? Yes.

Homicidal? Maybe.

Enraged? Absolutely—at the guy in front of her, and that was the point. She was obviously reacting to some kind of rejection from this man, which made me certain that another man wasn’t the answer to helping her see reason.

Dante, despite being dependable, creative, and kind, was the wrong gender for this task. Unfortunately, that didn’t occur to him. So when he lifted his tattooed forearms to do something heroic—and possibly fatal—I quickly rose from my crouched position.

“Dante!” I barked in a bad-boss tone. “Your shift was over an hour ago. No more overtime. Clock out and leave this minute.”

Shocked to see me, Dante froze, unsure what to do.

“Go,” I mouthed.

“But—”

“Now!”

I pointed to the steps, and (thank goodness) he obeyed, heading down the spiral staircase.

The crazed young woman either didn’t notice or didn’t care about our exchange. She simply continued making verbal threats to her target.

Standing now, I got a better read on the crowd of people who had stayed to watch this drama. Many had their phones out to record the action.

That’s when I reconsidered the situation, and the young woman’s goal. This audience—and all those busy phone cameras—might be the whole point. If it was, the show was over.

“We’re closing,” I declared. “Everyone has to leave. Right now!”

My patrons shuffled in their seats. Then their phones disappeared as they collected their things and slowly headed toward me and the staircase.

I used the exit tide as an opportunity to move closer to the armed woman.

“Go ahead, finish him!” I heard a gruff voice call from somewhere behind me.

I would have liked to know who made such a crass and dangerous remark, but it wasn’t worth taking my focus off that gun.

As the last of the customers hit our wrought-iron stairs, I heard a psssst sound across the room.

This time I looked.

It was Matt, peeking around the corner of the service staircase door. When our eyes met, he made a hand gesture, showing me he was ready to enter the room and help. But my ex wasn’t the right gender for this task, either, and I shook my head, shooing him back before he was spotted.

I knew the police would be here any minute. I also knew the protocol for an active shooter, thanks to my fiancé, Detective Lieutenant Mike Quinn. “When innocent lives are in jeopardy, Clare, we don’t hesitate. We shoot to kill.”

This distraught young woman was bent on terrorizing the man in front of her. But did she realize her own life was in danger?

With a deep breath, I took a few more steps. I couldn’t watch this young woman get gunned down or commit cold-blooded murder right in front of me. Not if there was a chance of talking sense into her . . .

“We’re closing now,” I said, my tone as gentle as I could make it. “Your audience is gone. Now you must leave. You and your friend—”

Poor choice of words.

“He’s not my friend!” she raged. “He’s a monster. A sick crusher who needs to be taught a lesson!”

While shouting at me, her gun stayed on him, but she turned a bit more in my direction. I noticed she’d taken great pains to make herself up for this performance: flawless foundation; perfect eyeliner; dusty rose blush and lipstick. Her jaw was proudly set, her small chin thrusting forward like a determined child. But her blue eyes looked wrong—frantic and darting one minute, then unfocused and eerily distant the next.

“If he committed a crime against you,” I said softly, “you can go to the police. The Special Victims Unit will—”

“He didn’t rape me. He lied to me. Said things that made me like him, trust him. And the next morning, I woke up next to a different person. He said awful things. Humiliated me. That may not be a crime, but it’s inhuman, abusive, and I’m not the only one he’s done it to!”

“I understand,” I said. “You wanted him to listen to you. And he has. Now you need to stop.”

“Me?” She waved the weapon. “I’m not the one who needs to stop! He needs to stop!”

“I’m certain he will.” I glanced at Mr. Bullseye, quaking in his chair. “Look at him. He got your message—” As I continued to reassure the girl, I inched closer to that gun. “Now let’s put it down, okay? I don’t want you to get hurt. And that’s what could happen if the police come up here—”

I told her if, but I knew they were coming, and we’d have no warning. Given the circumstances, they would roll up silently, no lights or sirens.

The thought of police arriving appeared to throw a bug into the girl’s brain waves. Confusion overwhelmed her, and she froze up, eyes going glassy.

This was my chance.

A gentle tug was all it took to pull the gun from her hands. Before I knew it, Matt was behind me, taking the weapon away, and I was putting my arms around her.

Seconds later, uniformed officers of the NYPD stormed into the lounge from both flights of stairs, guns drawn.