Who do you love?

It's a question anyone should be able to answer. A question that
defines a life, creates a future, guides most minutes of one's
days. Simple, elegant, encompassing.

Who do you love?

He asked the question, and I felt the answer in the weight of my
duty belt, the constrictive confines of my armored vest, the tight
brim of my trooper's hat, pulled low over my brow. I reached down
slowly, my fingers just brushing the top of my Sig Sauer, holstered
at my hip.

"Who do you love?" he cried again, louder now, more
insistent.

My fingers bypassed my state- issued weapon, finding the black
leather keeper that held my duty belt to my waist. The Velcro
rasped loudly as I unfastened the first band, then the second,
third, fourth. I worked the metal buckle, then my twenty pound duty
belt, complete with my sidearm, Taser, and collapsible steel baton
released from my waist and dangled in the space between us.

"Don't do this," I whispered, one last shot at reason.

He merely smiled. "Too little, too late."

"Where's Sophie? What did you do?"

"Belt. On the table. Now."

"No."

"GUN. On the table. NOW!"

In response, I widened my stance, squaring off in the middle of
the kitchen, duty belt still suspended from my left hand. Four
years of my life, patrolling the highways of Massachusetts,
swearing to defend and protect. I had training and experience on my
side.

I could go for my gun. Commit to the act, grab the Sig Sauer,
and start shooting.

Sig Sauer was holstered at an awkward angle that would cost me
precious seconds. He was watching, waiting for any sudden movement.
Failure would be firmly and terribly punished.

Who do you love?

He was right. That's what it came down to in the end. Who did
you love and how much would you risk for them?

"GUN!" he boomed. "Now, dammit!"

I thought of my six- year- old daughter, the scent of her hair,
the feel of her skinny arms wrapped tight around my neck, the sound
of her voice as I tucked her in bed each night. "Love you, Mommy,"
she always whispered.

Love you, too, baby. Love you.

His arm moved, first tentative stretch for the suspended duty
belt, my holstered weapon.

One last chance . . .

I looked my husband in the eye. A single heartbeat of time.

Who do you love?

I made my decision. I set down my trooper's belt on the kitchen
table.

And he grabbed my Sig Sauer and opened fire.

Excerpted from LOVE YOU MORE: A D. D. Warren Novel ©
Copyright 2011 by Lisa Gardner. Reprinted with permission by
Bantam. All rights reserved.