Page 27

“I’m ready,” Cam says without missing a beat, and I don’t push the issue. This is a man who can’t remember to pack socks or take out the trash, but he never forgets a recipe, a measurement, a budget line. Cam knows exactly how many packs of butter he has in the cooler at any given moment. He knows the market price of a twenty-eight-day aged filet mignon down to the cent. He doesn’t need to write the number down.
“I need you to get $734,296 in cash and bring it to the house. Do not call the police. Do not tell anyone what you need the money for. Just get it and bring it home. When you get here with the money, he’ll let us go.”
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know. He hasn’t told me his name.”
“Is it...is ithim?” Cam doesn’t have to say who he’s referring to. The pock-skinned, man-bunned man.
“No. At least I don’t think so.”
“Who, then? What does he look like?”
The man touches the side of the gun to his temple, a not-so-subtle indication to mention the mask. Before the call, he told me I was allowed to, but only if Cam asked.
“I don’t know. He’s wearing a mask.”
The man nods, gives me a close-lipped smile.Good dog.
“It sounds like I’m on speaker. Is he listening? He’s standing right there, isn’t he?”
Finally, Cam is asking the right questions, gathering up the facts with his businessman’s mind. But before this call connected, the man was very specific about what I was allowed to say. The instructions, that I’m separated from the kids, that we’re fine for now but that Cam needs to hurry—those were all parts of the script. Everything else is on a case-by-case basis.
I look at him for guidance, and he gives a slow shake of his head. Panic heats the space behind my breastbone because I don’t know what that means. Am I supposed to lie and say he’s not listening? To not answer the question?
Cam reads the truth behind my silence. “Mister, I don’t know who you are, but I want you to be assured that I will get you the money. I’ll get whatever you want. But I’m begging you, please don’t hurt my family.”
I wait for the man’s response, but he stares at the phone in his hand as the silence stretches. He’s thinking, I guess, considering how to answer—ifto answer. He looks at me, and his lips move, pink and exaggerated like a silent film star.
Police.
I frown, not understanding until his gaze flits to the phone.
“Did you hear the part about the police, Cam? You can’t call them. He said no law enforcement of any kind. He’ll kill us if you call them.”
“I heard you. I won’t call them. You have my word.”
The man rolls his eyes. Across the hall, the television fades into a commercial break and the house falls quiet, only a soft hiss coming from the phone. I stare at it, stomach acid burning up my throat as my mind bubbles with terrible thoughts.He doesn’t believe Cam. He doesn’t think he’ll bring the money.
Icy fingers clamp down on my heart and squeeze. “How long will it take you to get here? Do you remember the amount?”
“Seven-three-four-two-nine-six. I remember. It’s a strange amount.”
I said the same thing, too, and pretty much word for word. The man refused to tell me anything other than I better hope Cam will be able to scrounge up the cash.
But in the minutes ever since, in between his careful explanation of what I am to say and him punching the call into my phone, I’ve quietly come up with an answer: the number is not random. It’s the bottom line on a bank statement he fished out of our mailbox, maybe, or the purchase price for a building Cam is bidding on for one of his restaurants. Otherwise why not demand an even $800,000? Why not shoot for a million or more?
Another realization is that as strange as the number is, it also could present a problem—it’s too big to just walk into a bank and withdraw. Aren’t there waiting periods for that kind of cash? Precious minutes to wait out the red tape.
And his investment strategy these past few years has been aggressive. Expanding his business, turning every bit of profit into capital for the next location. What if he doesn’t have enough money liquid? Cam might have to gather up cash from different accounts, liquidate some of his assets. He might not have enough time.
Or maybe that’s the whole purpose.
Terror churns in my stomach because maybe this is no typical ransom plot. Maybe this man’s promises of a happy reunion is a lie. Maybe no matter what kind of miracle Cam works, the day culminates with a bullet in each of our heads.
If that’s true, if this whole exercise was intended to fail, then that means nothing I do, nothing Cam does, will change how this day ends. As much as I want him to hurry, every minute he’s not here means another minute the kids and I are still breathing.
Another minute I have to figure out how to get us out of this alive.