I float in the nebulous twilight between awake and asleep when something startles me. My heart pounds in my ears. What was that? An intruder? My dreams?
There’s a muffled sound downstairs. Nope, not my dreams.
I retrieve my handgun from the nightstand, tiptoe to the door, and ease it open, hoping the hinges don’t squeak. The WD-40 I used last month makes sure they don’t.
I step out onto the landing overlooking the living room below, dimly lit by a small lamp on the sofa table.
A shape moves, holding a tiny light pointed at the bookcase.
“Who’s there?” I shout.
The light aims at me.
I aim at the shape and pull the trigger. The boom shatters the silence. The shape crumples, and the light goes out.
I rush down the stairs, flip on the lights, and cautiously approach the body, pointing the gun with my shaky hand. I gasp at what I see. And what I don’t.
On the floor where it fell lies a shape, all right, but there is no body.
There is only a shadow, with a hole in its chest.
