“HARRY?” SOMEONE CALLED.
Her voice barely penetrated the ringing in my ears. The boy in front of me was cowering, turned as much toward me as he would dare, one wide eye peering over his shoulder at my gun. I was aware suddenly of movement beyond the teenage boy under my gun, toward the front of the house. Melina Tredwell, older than I remembered, hugging a coat around her. The teenage boy bent and sank to the ground. I realized the ringing sound was his pitiful whimpering, along with the panicked screaming of a teenage girl just inside the window to my left.
“Harry!” Melina had been running toward me, and now she slowed, her palms out flat. “Harry, please put the gun down.”
“She’s gonna kill me.” The boy I’d thought was Regan Banks crouched against the side of the house, trying to make himself as small as possible. “She’s gonna kill me!”
I dropped the aim of my gun. My legs felt numb. I staggered, wiped at the sweat on my brow. My jaws were locked together so tightly, it took a concerted effort to part them.
“Harry, it’s me.” Melina took my arms carefully, her touch gentle, fearful. “It’s Melina.”
“I almost shot that boy,” I said. My voice was flat. Cold. “I thought he was Regan. I almost killed him.”
“You’re shaking,” Melina said. “Come inside.”
She turned to the boy on the ground. The kid’s enormous, weightlifter-style frame was in stark contrast to his smooth, hairless face and big, innocent eyes. He couldn’t have been older than sixteen. He appeared to have left the house by the window beside me, forgotten something, and was heading back in. In the house, a teenage girl, maybe fifteen, was tugging a robe around herself, eyes fearful, locked on me.
“You.” Melina pointed a finger at the boy on the ground, all her softness suddenly gone. “Both of you. In the kitchen, right now.”