Marianne Jones snapped one day. After a lovely day at church and brunch with a good friend, she came home and went to the safe she kept in her bedroom closet. She opened it without hesitation, remembering the combination like it was just yesterday, but it was actually over thirty years ago since she opened the safe. It was when her late husband yelled from downstairs to get the gun because he thought he saw an intruder outside. She smiled, remembering the moment that ended in a bout of laughter because her husband was always seeing and hearing things that weren’t there. In this case, it was a tree with an odd shadow.

She grabbed the fully loaded .32 mm and admired the way it still shined after all of these years. The gun had never even been fired before and Marianne was strangely happy that she'd be the only one to give it a whirl. Marianne's dad taught her how to use a gun when she was a teenager, and she became really comfortable with them. Marianne was anxious to see if she still remembered.

Still dressed in her navy blue church dress, pearl necklace with matching earrings, and short crème-colored heels, Marianne put the gun in her black clutch purse, walked out of the house, and got into her car. She drove through her neighborhood, assessing the level of inappropriateness and shaking her head. The police knew who the boy was in last week’s shooting and they knew he lived in the area, but for some reason they had trouble catching him. Marianne knew his habits better than they did. She saw him two blocks from her own house, rolled down the window, and conducted her first of many drive-by shootings...

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