27.
It was 6:30 p.m., and the kids were playing at a neighbor's house.
I was in my study going over my notes and reviewing the internet video feed of Kingsley's shooting. Despite myself I laughed as I watched Kingsley ducking and dodging the bullets. Although immortal, each shot must have hurt like hell, and, at the time, the bullets had done serious enough damage to render him almost useless.
I paused on the clearest image of the shooter, which was still pretty grainy. Unfortunately, due to the poor quality of the image, it was impossible to tell if the shooter had been Rick Horton. Whoever it had been was wearing a generic warm-up jacket and a red ball cap. Seemed obvious to me that the shooter was wearing a fake mustache, too, but I couldn't be sure. It just seemed too prominent, and in one frame it even stuck out at an odd angle, as if the glue had come undone. This, too, was noted in the police file.
I now knew Horton owned a .22, and a .22 was used in the crime. Where did that get me? Not much, but at least it was a start.
I felt uneasy, unrested, undead.
Shrugging my shoulders, which at this time of the day suddenly seemed twice as heavy, I absently rubbed
6
