"If you want to kill him," Lily's voice trembled but held firm, "then you'll have to kill me first, Dad."
The words hung in the air like shattered glass, each fragment reflecting twenty-three years of memories. Her father's hand, still gripping the gun, began to shake. She watched as something broke behind his eyes – the fierce protector giving way to the daddy who had once carried her on his shoulders through Central Park. In that moment, every bedtime story, every monster checked under her bed, every proud smile when she'd achieved something new flashed through her mind like a bittersweet slideshow.
"Kill... you?" The words seemed to physically pain him. The gun lowered an inch, then another, as decades of love fought against minutes of rage. His fingers, usually so steady signing million-dollar contracts, trembled against the cold metal.
