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“Stop talking and listen to me, okay? This is an emergency.”
There’s a long, empty beat of airy silence. “Is this about that skeevy guy again, because—”
“No, but I need you to listen carefully.” I stare at my husband’s name on my iPhone screen, and I want to scream. I want to cry. I don’t want to be making this call. “There’s a man here, at the house. He says that—”
“A man. What man? Who?”
If only I knew. I’ve spent the past hour asking myself the same question, flipping through mental headshots of Cam’s salaried staff, the chefs and general managers I’ve met throughout the years, but there were a lot and the restaurant business is notoriously fluid. Talent bounces around, floating from restaurant to restaurant based on the latest newspaper reviews and Glassdoor rankings.
“Cam, listen to me.”My voice is shaky and raw, the words scratching in my throat like twine. “This man has a gun, and he says he will kill me if—”
“Agun,are youserious? Babe. If this is a joke, it’s not funny.”
“It’s not a joke. This man says he will shoot me and the kids unless you do exactly as he says. I’m only allowed to tell you this once. Are you ready?” I glance up at the man, and he nods his approval.
“Hell no, I’m not ready. Where are the Bees?”
Beatrix and Baxter. Instant tears at the affectionate term, said in such a desperate tone, used in such a blood-chilling context.
I gulp hard breaths, staring at the man’s knock-off Adidas sneakers. Cam is a solver. He spends all day every day tearing down roadblocks and putting out fires. But he’s not staring down the barrel of a gun, or attached to a forty-pound chair. He still thinks he can turn this thing around.
“The kids are in the playroom. Watching TV.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m in the guest room.” I squeeze my eyes tight, breathe through a slice of white-hot panic. “He tied me to the blue chair.”
“You’re tied to a chair. Are you for real right now? Because you’re scaring me.”
I’m scaring me, too. Hearing the words roll off my tongue has me electric with fear, but I can tell Cam isn’t there yet. It’s not that he doesn’t believe me, it’s just that he’s still processing.
“He has a gun, Cam. He says he wants money.”
“Jesus.” Tires screech, and a car honks in the background. “Hold tight. I’m on the way.”
“Cam,no. If you come without the money, he’ll kill us. If you call the police, he’ll kill us. Do you understand? You can’t call the police. He says if you do, if he sees somebody sneaking through the yard or hears so much as a siren in the distance—” I don’t think I can say the terrible words out loud, but I know I have to “—he says he’ll kill the kids first and make me watch. He says he’ll give me plenty of time to see it, and then he’ll kill me, too.”
“Let me talk to the kids. I want to talk to them.”
Before we made this call, before the man pulled up Cam’s contact card on my phone and hit the number for his cell, the parameters were clearly defined. This is one of the scenarios we talked about. If Cam asks to talk to the children, I am to tell him no.
I look at the man now, and he shakes his head.
“You can’t. They’re in the playroom.”
I stare at the phone as I say it, trying to ignore the gun in his other hand, the barrel pointed at my forehead. I’m praying the last word will spark something in Cam’s mind. A memory. A recollection of the three nanny cams, concealed in strategic spots around the playroom. The same ones he teased me for installing, the ones he claims were an unnecessary expense seeing as I was never going to hire a nanny.
“Are they... Are the Bees okay?”
“For now.” Another answer the man and I rehearsed, one that’s meant to put the fear of God in Cam.
The kids’ earlier bickering from the back seat of my car rings once again through my head, wrapping like barbed wire around my heart. I will never fuss at them again. I will never lose patience when they want another hug, another story, another few minutes of my attention when I’ve finally found a moment alone.
I squeeze my eyes shut but it doesn’t staunch the tears. “But, Cam, you have to do exactly as I say.”
“Tell me. I’m ready.”
“I need you to go to the bank and withdraw—it’s a specific number. Maybe you should write it down.”