Some things you can count on, like someone bringing jello to the Fourth of July picnic, or your daughter picking the absolute worst date to bring to the prom, just to get under your skin. Most things you can't count on, but there are some.
She had planned everything out; ask Norman, she's meticulous. She'd gone down South to case the place, watch the mark, to learn his habits inside and out. She had been a constant fixture in his life, and he hadn't even noticed.
And she knew that he went to bed at ten-thirty, and so, at eleven, she cut the wires to the house, killing the alarm system. The house was big and dark, and since she had the blueprints, easy to navigate. Up the stairs that come right off the kitchen, turn to the left, and the master is right down the hall.
Booted feet are quiet on lush carpeting, there are no animals to alert the owner, no children. It's perfect. Emma pulled out the silencer and screwed it onto her precious .45 ACP, and she nudged the bedroom door open.
People are curious sleepers. Some people take up the whole bed, some people stay on one side and never roll over. The judge is sleeping soundly, alone, and Emma lifts her weapon and fires. But it just so happened that he picked that moment to move, and the bullet hit his shoulder. So instead of never waking up, he's screaming.
What Emma didn't realize was his newfound habit of sleeping with a gun -- he's had threats on his life before, from angry convicts, and she learns this tidbit too late; he produces a 9MM from under his pillow and fires. Most people would miss, but no. He manages to catch her in her side, a through and through. It stings like hell, it burns, but Emma isn't thrown off -- she's pissed. She fires three in a rapid succession, and he slumps over the edge of the bed, blood oozing from his nose and mouth.
Hissing a sound through her teeth, she pulls her hand away from the wound. She's out of the house before she leaves any evidence behind, hobbling to her rental -- rented under the name of Gloria Sue Cartwright. It's not something she can fix on site, and Emma's cussing up a storm. The nearest hospital isn't far, and she does her best to drive herself there, using one hand.
She's not fond of ERs, of doctors and nurses. They ask too many questions, but she's an expert liar, rehearsing her story even as she passes through the doors. Blood is bright red on her hand, staining the black of her t-shirt glossy slick. Putting her good hand on the counter, the charge nurse looks up.
Emma's smile is more of a grimace. "You got a bandaid? I've been shot."
