Page 33

He barks a laugh. “A man bun. No, I don’t have a man bun.” His tone saysridiculous.
I add another item to my mental list: mainstream hairstyle, traditional cut. Or possibly bald. Either way, not the type to sport a man bun.
“But it is interesting, don’t you think, that another man has been following you, too. What do you think he wants?”
I lift a shoulder but remain silent. I’m not about to get into my theories with this man—not that I have all that many. Until that guy showed up at Beatrix’s violin lessons today, I always just assumed running into him was random.
And I don’t miss this man’s choice of words, that someoneelsehas been following me. I think back to all those times I raced through Whole Foods, bracing for the man-bunned man to pop around the corner. Was I so distracted by looking for him that I didn’t notice the other, more sinister man trailing me up and down the aisles? Did he follow me to the gym, the coffee shop, the post office, Beatrix’s violin lessons, too? As I go about my normal day, am I really that oblivious?
He sinks onto the edge of the bed directly across from me, the mattress springs creaking under his weight. “But it does make you wonder, though...” He shakes the tape from his fingers and it flutters to the floor, landing upside down on the rug.
I stare at him, waiting for him to finish.
“How much do you know about your husband’s business?”
I try not to let on how surprised I am at his words, how much this question disturbs me. It’s a little surreal how perfectly he dropped it into the conversation, too, in a voice so casual and offhand, shooting it off like a poisonous dart. These words were meant to rouse suspicion. I’m not about to give him the satisfaction.
“Cam and I are partners. He tells me everything.”
The truth is, this onlyusedto be the case. Cam and I fell in love while building his brand. Some of our best date nights were spent making the rounds, bouncing from restaurant to restaurant so he could check on things in the kitchen while I schmoozed with the customers and made sure the lounge pillows were fluffed and the flower arrangements fresh. Yes, it was work, but there was plenty of time for socializing as well—sending over free apps whenever we spotted friends, popping by their table for a glass of wine, offering folks a free cocktail at the bar. Every night was work and one big party all rolled into one. Once upon a time, it was how Cam and I connected.
But that was before kids, and homework and bedtime rituals and early-morning carpools that had me crawling under the comforter by ten. Cam and I make it a point to eat lunch together most days, but we rarely talk about work. Not for a while now.
“What about Cam’s business?” I say.
Across from me, the man’s lips spread in a hideous smile, and I know I’m giving this asshole exactly what he wants, but my reasoning is more than just bald-faced curiosity. Every hint he drops, every tiny tidbit he buries in a sentence he thinks I won’t notice...they’re all clues. At some point this man will make a mistake and say something revealing. The more I know, the more chances I have to survive this thing. At some point, I will catch my enemy off guard.
“I can’t decide if you’re playing with me,” he says, his words slow, thoughtful, “or if you really don’t know.”
He falls silent, a long, strategic pause as he watches me with dark, observant eyes. He’s waiting for me to engage, to beg him for information, but I don’t respond. If Cam were here, he’d tell me I’m being too proud.
Baxter’s singsong voice carries across the hall, the sound too low for me to pick out his words from the TV soundtrack, and his chatter both soothes and terrifies me. It means Baxter and Beatrix are conscious, that they’re safe—as the man said,for now. Assuming Cam can scrounge up three-quarters of a million dollars and somehow make it home by seven—two colossal assumptions. I just have to keep the kids alive until then, but how am I supposed to do that when I’m stuck in this chair?
The man twists around on the bed, facing the open doorway. “Yo, Bax.”
I try to think of something to stop him, to keep his focus on me, on right here in this room, but my mind is thick as peanut butter.
A stomach-fluttering pause, then a high voice floats across the hall: “Yeah?”
The man glances back, just long enough to flash me a wink. “Everything okay over there?”
This is all for my benefit. This man is manipulating me again, dangling my most precious carrot and daring me not to snap it up. Calling out to the kids now is punishment—for not taking his bait fast enough, for not playing along with his stupid, diabolical game. I’m a rat, trapped in his maze.
The words burst out of me, high and frantic. “If I really don’t know what?”
He lifts a finger to his lips and tilts his head, pointing his ear at the door.
“The commercials are taking forever,” Bax calls out. “But can you come over here? I got a cramp.”
The man puffs a laugh, turning back to me with a look I recognize through the mask.Crazy kids. He doesn’t know that this is classic Baxter, and that “cramp” is an excuse. A word that can mean virtually anything, from help changing the channel to bringing him a snack, getting him a glass of water, reading him another book, giving him your undivided attention. He says it so often, the word has infiltrated the Lasky family lexicon. When the recycling bin needs to be rolled to the curb, I tell Cam I have a garbage cramp. When Cam wants sex, he tells me he has a penis cramp.
And now Baxter is using the word with this man as if he’s here to help us, not hold us hostage. He’s too young to understand what’s really happening here. He’s too trusting to be scared. One stupid magic trick downstairs, and Bax is buddying up to the monster.
“If I really don’t know what?” I say again, red-hot adrenaline thumping in my veins. “Please tell me what you know about Cam’s business. Because if there’s some kind of problem, if he’s hurt you in any way, I can help. Cam listens to me. Please let me help.”
“You want to help.”
It’s not a question, but I nod anyway, a series of frantic and fast bobs of my head.