Sara

10

"Now what?" Michaelson asked quietly, eyes dropping to the pistol she had pointed at his chest.

Sara raised the gun and slammed him over the head with as much force as she could muster. Stunned and already losing blood, Michaelson slumped to the floor as she let go of his shirt, crouching down next to him and hitting him over the head again for good measure.

Okay, okay...what now?

Sara flicked the safety back on her gun and set it down beside her, examining the inert Michaelson. I don't think there's a very high chance he'd go to the police, considering he's a hitman's handler...but then again, he did testify to the DA...and he said he knew her.

Anger at Kara Maxwell bubbled up inside Sara but she fought against it, needing to focus on the problem lying before her. My gun is registered, at least in Dad's name. They can trace it back to my family. I need to make sure they can't do that.

Sara eyed the wound in Michaelson's leg. Oh, Leah, you owe me so much for this!

Picking up her gun, Sara headed into the kitchen and searched around for paper towels. When she found a roll under the sink, she tore several off and wiped down the exterior of the cabinet. Hopefully, that removes any trace of my presence.

Another quick search turned up a pair of chopsticks and Sara returned to the unconscious Michaelson. Kneeling down beside him, she grimaced and inserted the chopsticks into the wound.

She didn't know how long she sat there, feeling around for the bullet and trying to extract it using only chopsticks. But finally she had worked the projectile closer to the surface and used her fingers to pry it out, dropping it into the paper towel and rubbing her fingers off on it.

Okay, I've got the bullet, check.

Now the brass.

Having Darius for a brother-in-law had taught Sara many things about guns. Sometimes, he would talk about the different ways police could identify a shooter even if they didn't have access to the gun itself: they could trace the bullet itself back to the gun that fired it, and the brass left behind could be used to narrow down the type of gun used.

Sara had always just found those topics mildly interesting, until now.

It took ten minutes of searching for Sara to locate the small piece of brass, which she placed with the bullet, wrapped securely in several layers of paper towels, and placed it in her coat pocket once she pulled it on. Her gun in her hand, Sara gave one last look over the place, her gaze lingering on Michaelson.

Slowly, she lifted her gun, aiming the weapon at his chest. I could do it, blow a hole through his heart and kill him like Darius killed Leah. I could get my revenge, I could do it!

I want to do it.

Sara clicked the safety off, keeping the gun steadily aimed at Michaelson. Her finger caressed the trigger as she held her breath. Then she turned, lowering the gun and sprinting toward the front door, yanking it open with her sleeve covering her hand and slamming it shut behind her.

She leaned against the door, repressing a sob as she flicked the safety back on. She had almost done it, almost done it. He could be dead right now.

And she could be a murderer right now.

No. He would deserve it. He does deserve it.

Now what?

Sara wrapped her coat tightly around her as she stood on Michaelson's porch, gazing out at the snow. She needed to get back to her car, which she had left parked outside Leo's Bar, but she was hesitant to call a taxi, to give anyone a reason to suspect her part in shooting Michaelson. And she did not want to call her mother, either; she would want to know who Sara had been with and why.

Leah would have been perfect to call in this situation; she would have asked questions but wouldn't have pushed, respecting Sara's right to privacy if she hadn't wanted to talk. She would have driven Sara home without making a big deal out of things.

But of course, Leah would never pick her up ever again.

Sara pulled out her phone, glancing at the notifications. Jack had tried to call her twice and had left two messages. It was ten o'clock; was it too late to call him back?

I'm always here, if you need someone, he'd said earlier that evening.

Sara pressed his number.

Jack picked up on the third ring. "Sara!" he answered. "I was getting worried."

"I'm sorry, I've been busy," Sara replied vaguely. "Jack, I've got a big favor to ask you."

There was a pause. "Yes, of course, what is it?"

"I need you to pick me up from somewhere," Sara said. "And drive me to where I left my car."

"Okay. Where are you?"

"I'm on Whistle Drive. I'll be walking on the sidewalk toward Elaine Street."

"Okay, I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

Jack hung up and Sara tucked the phone into her pocket as she started walking, the gun weighing heavy in her coat pocket. I shot a man. A despicable man, but still. I shot him in the leg.

I wanted to kill him so badly. I almost did.

What kind of person does that make me?

Sara almost didn't want to know.

When Jack's car pulled up alongside her, the window rolling down to reveal her coworker peering anxiously at her, Sara hopped into the passenger seat. "I left my car near Leo's Bar," she said, giving him directions. "Thank you so much for picking me up."

"Anytime, Sara," Jack said, glancing across at her, his brow furrowed. "May I ask what's going on?"

Sara gazed out at the snowy road as Jack pulled onto Elaine Street. Idly, she wondered what Elaine from Seinfeld would think if it had ever come in conversation that a road shared the same name as her. "Get out!" she would probably exclaim, shoving Jerry or George or whoever had told her. The thought made her smile weakly.

"I had a meeting with someone," Sara said. "Um...concerning Leah's death. He knew something about the murder, so I needed to talk to him. It's a long story," she concluded lamely.

Jack nodded. "Just...Sara, promise me you'll take care of yourself. Please? I know this must be awful, but...don't do anything rash."

Sara tilted her head back. She didn't want to make any promises right now. "I'll try, Jack."

[----]

When Sara entered her apartment, she locked the door behind her and threw her coat at the rack after taking her pistol out. The paper towel bundle of bullet and brass she placed on her coffee table as she turned on the television, wanting some noise to block out the sound of her thoughts, even if just for a little bit.

The late night news was playing and Sara headed into her bedroom, opening the gun safe and placing the incriminating bullet and brass inside, deciding to keep her pistol on her nightstand tonight. Michaelson wouldn't be able to do anything about her shooting him tonight, but Sara wasn't taking any chances that he wouldn't somehow find out who she was and send someone else out to kill her.

As she wandered back into the living room, the words of the news reporter became distinct. "Notorious drug lord Samuel Cant's prison transfer was completed today as sentencing concluded yesterday, giving Cant fifteen years in prison for all of his crimes."

Sara glanced up at the screen, reading the name of the prison Cant was being transferred to. Huh. Isn't that where Darius is? Turning the television off, she rubbed her eyes. I need to get some sleep. I'll figure out what to do next tomorrow.

Thoughts raced through her mind as she padded back into her bedroom. Darius is a hitman. Leah found out and so he killed her. Michaelson testified that she was cheating on Darius so he could get a lesser sentence, and since he knows the DA, he's sure he'll get it. And Darius needed to go to prison so he could kill someone else.

Sara sighed, falling back onto her bed. Now how do I show that it was planned? How do I show that he's really guilty of Leah's murder?