It's the way he strokes the gun. Or maybe the way he just takes it from her.

With it back in her hands, her chin dimples a little, her mouth trembles.

It passes. She mounts the stairs slowly, but not too slowly. They had training in this; the important thing is to stay calm.

Back upstairs, her music is still playing. Briefly, she thinks about slamming the living-room door in his face, of trying to knock the glass out of one of the windows and jumping. But she won't get away with another stunt like that; she can tell, the same way she can feel his eyes on her from behind.

In the center of the room, she turns around, hands loose and by her sides. The gun dangles uselessly from the right.