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thankful, at this moment, for Bonnie’s muteness. It’s made me comfortable with nonverbal communication, able to understand nuanced meaning regardless of words.
    Okay,
that nod says.
But the gun stays, and I’ll probably still use it.
    Just get her out of this room, I think. That’s the first step.
    “Great, Sarah,” I reply, nodding back to her. “I’m going to put away my gun.” Her eyes follow my hands as I do this. “Now, I’m going to back out of the room. I want you to follow me. I want you to keep your eyes on mine. That’s
important,
Sarah. Only on me. Don’t look right or left or up or down. Look at me.”
    I start to move backward, going in a straight line. I keep my eyes locked on hers, willing her to do the same. I stop when I’m standing in the doorway.
    “Come on, honey. I’m right here. Walk to me.”
    A hesitation, and then she slides off the windowsill. Kind of
pours
off it, like water. The gun is still at her head. Her eyes stay on mine as she moves toward the doorway. They never stray to the bed, not once.
    Good, I think. Nothing like looking at that mess to make you want to kill yourself.
    Now that she’s standing, I can tell that she’s about five foot two inches. In spite of her shock, her movements are graceful and precise. She glides.
    She looks small surrounded by the murdered dead. Her bare feet are splashed with blood; she either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care.
    I walk back to let her move through the doorway. She plods past me, keeping her eyes on my hands. A watchful zombie.
    “I’m going to reach over and close the door. Okay, honey?”
    She nods.
I don’t care,
the nod says.
About living or dying or anything at all.
    I close the door and allow myself a moment of relief. I wipe sweat from my forehead with a trembling hand.
    I take a deep breath and turn to Sarah. Now let’s see if I can get her to give me that gun.
    “You know what? I’m going to sit down.”
    I take a seat so the bedroom doors are at my back. I do this without breaking eye contact.
I’m here, I see you, you have all my attention,
I’m saying.
    “It’s a little hard to talk while you’re up there and I’m down here,” I say, squinting up at her. I indicate the space in front of me. “Why don’t you take a seat?” I examine her face. “You look tired, sweetheart.”
    That eerie head-cocking gesture again. I lean forward and pat the carpet.
    “Come on, Sarah. It’s just you and me. No one is going to come in here until I tell them to. No one’s going to hurt you while I’m here. You wanted to see me.” I pat the carpet again, still maintaining eye contact. “Sit down and relax. I’ll shut up and we’ll wait here until you’re ready to tell me whatever it is you wanted to tell me.”
    She moves without warning, stepping backward and then lowering herself to the floor. It’s done with the same pouring-of-water grace that she displayed as she slid off the windowsill. I wonder idly if she’s a dancer, or perhaps a gymnast.
    I give her a reassuring smile. “Good, honey,” I say. “Very good.”
    Her eyes stay on mine. The gun is still glued to her right temple.
    As I consider my next move, I remember one of the key lessons my negotiations instructor gave:
    “Speaking when you want, not speaking when you want, it’s all about control,” he’d observed. “When you’re dealing with someone who’s refusing to speak, and you don’t know what buttons to push—don’t know much about them personally, in other words—you need to shut up. Your instinct will be to fill that silence. Resist it. It’s like letting a phone ring—it makes you crazy, but it’ll stop ringing sooner or later. Same thing here. Wait them out, and they’ll fill that silence for you.”
    I keep my face calm, my eyes on hers, and I stay silent.
    Sarah’s face is a superlative of stillness, and absence of motion, formed from wax. The corners of her mouth don’t twitch. I feel like I’m having a staring