From the Story of Ann and Neil

Aidan's half-open overnight bag lay beside the door of his room and his prized Spiderman pajamas were on the bed, so neatly folded that, at first glance, they looked like part of the bed covers. Neil would bet that was Miss Prim's doing.
     Stepping back into the hall, he glanced into the next bedroom, Miss Prim's room, which wasn't hard to do. Her door, like the front door, lay in splinters on the floor. 
     Taking a quick glance down the hall to make sure the none of the police squad was looking his way, Neil slipped inside the her room and looked around. As the cop had said, it was a mess. The ceiling had been riddled with bullets and the bed had puncture wounds in it.
     His eyebrows went up.
     Aidan hadn't been the only one in danger. Miss Prim had been damn well close to being punctured herself.
     He turned to go, then paused to look at the delicate landscapes hung on the wall.
     What sort of person was she, this prim and proper would-be old maid who painted pictures of charming dawns and wildflower meadows? Who had the cool thinking and the courage to save his son from armed kidnappers? Who'd turned out to be sexy as hell?
     He picked up a framed photo from the table next to her bed. It was picture of a family--a man, a woman, and a flaxen-haired little girl about Aidan's age--all smiling. Obviously, the McCoys had been happier in years past.
     His forehead wrinkled as he put the photo down.
     What had happened, he wondered. What had happened to Ann McCoy that had damaged her so much that she'd turned into the grim Miss Prim she was today?