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Edelson said.
    Ten minutes later, Molly emerged, looking like she’d stepped off the cover of a bride’s
     magazine. Somehow, she’d combed her blond hair and repaired her makeup. She gave Officer
     Edelson a heartbroken smile and squared her shoulders.
    “I’m ready,” she said.
    “If you go quietly, I won’t cuff you,” he said.
    She upped her smile to radiant. He put his hand on her elbow and escorted her out
     of the clinic surgery. Madfis followed with his camera trained on the couple, a grotesque
     parody of a wedding photographer.
    He was back five minutes later, grinning. “I got the money shot—the bride getting
     into the cop car, with the Bentley in the background.”
    “Good work, Bill,” said producer Rona Richley. “Now, Mrs. Scottsmeyer Hall, we’d like
     to talk to you about that pearl-handled pistol.”
    Lenore looked absurdly pleased. She checked her makeup in her compact mirror, fluffed
     her already perfect hair, and pulled out her pistol.
    “I always carry my weapon in my purse for self-protection,” she said. She held her
     pearl-handled pistol as if it were a piece of fine jewelry.
    Madfis, the Channel Seven photographer, pointed his lens at the shining silver gun.
    “Pretty, isn’t it?” she asked. “Pretty deadly. I don’t carry this for looks. It’s
     a weapon—a snub-nose thirty-eight.”
    Lenore was a natural for television. The bridal invasion at the clinic had been dramatic
     and potentially deadly, but Lenore seemed unruffled. She faced the camera, relaxed
     and comfortable, looked it right in the eye, and smiled at it like a lover.
    The camera loved her back. Josie could see Lenore on producer Rona Richley’s monitor.
     Television gave Ted’s mother an actressy glamor and newfound youth. She barely looked
     forty on the small screen. It was a tribute to her style and her second husband’s
     plastic surgery skills.
    Lenore pointed to the pistol’s inlaid-pearl grip with a manicured nail. “These are
     my initials in silver.
LSH
—Lenore Scottsmeyer Hall. My son, Dr. Ted Scottsmeyer, says I use too many monograms,
     but I want everyone to know this is my weapon.”
    Ted, standing next to a cabinet, winced at the mention of his name. Josie patted his
     hand and he smiled at her. She thought he was too pale. The blood spot on his shirt
     collar had dried and his thick hair stuck up. Josie smoothed it back into place.
    “Don’t underestimate this little beauty,” Lenore was saying. “It’s small but deadly.
     This thirty-eight is a self-defense handgun for close quarters, designed to be easily
     concealed. It fits right in here.”
    Lenore held up her black Chanel purse with the signature double
C
s. “If necessary, I can fire right through this,” she said. “But I’d hate to ruin
     a good purse.”
    She laughed, dismissing her deadly skill as a charming eccentricity. Rona smiled at
     her. The Channel Seven producer was crouched behind Bill, the photographer, nodding
     encouragement to Lenore. Rona had explained that she’d ask Lenore questions, but they
     would be edited out of the actual TV interview. She didn’t need to ask many. Lenore
     almost interviewed herself.
    Josie thought Lenore gave her gun lesson with professional polish, except she ignored
     the most basic safety rule: Never point a gun at anyone. Lenore aimed her thirty-eight
     straight at Bill. The photographer didn’t flinch.
    “A short-barreled revolver like this is useful for its speed,” Lenore said. “I can
     draw, sight, and fire by the time an attacker with a long-barreled gun is still trying
     to get me in his sights.”
    She stuffed the snub-nose back into her purse. “I’m licensed to carry concealed and
     I practice religiously. I can empty my weapon into a pie plate at seven yards in five
     seconds—including the time it takes to draw it from this purse. I practice, practice,
     practice. I have to. That’s the mistake most people make. They buy a gun and then
     don’t