When the shot rang out

The autumn wind carried the scent of decay through the abandoned warehouse district. Detective Jo Danville crouched beside a pool of dried blood, her gloved fingers hovering over a shell casing that glinted in the afternoon sun. Ten years with the NYPD crime lab had taught her to read crime scenes like others read books—every spatter pattern, every fiber, every microscopic detail told part of the story.

"Got another casing over here," she called out to the uniformed officer securing the perimeter. "Looks like nine millimeter."

She reached for her evidence bag, mind already cataloging the trajectory angles, calculating where the shooter must have stood. This one's going to be complicated, she thought. Better text Mac that I'll be late for dinner.

The thought of home brought a smile to her lips. Ellie had a science project due tomorrow. Tyler needed help with his math homework. Emma would want her bedtime story, and Thomas—

The crack of the rifle shot shattered the moment.

Jo felt the impact before she heard the sound—a sledgehammer blow to her chest that drove the air from her lungs and sent her sprawling backward onto the concrete. The evidence bag flew from her hand, scattering into the wind. The sky above her was impossibly blue, she noticed, as red bloomed across her shirt like a terrible flower opening.

No, she thought, trying to draw breath that wouldn't come. Not now. Not like this.

"Officer down! Officer down!" The uniformed cop's voice seemed to come from very far away. "We need a bus! Now!"

Jo's vision began to tunnel. She tried to speak, tried to say their names—Mac, Ellie, Tyler, Emma, Thomas—but darkness was rushing in like a tide, and she was drowning in it.

The last thing she saw before the world went black was her own blood pooling on the concrete, mixing with the evidence she'd been collecting, contaminating the scene.

I'm sorry, she thought. I'm so sorry.