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Baxter plucks his thumb from his mouth with a soft pop. “Take us out where?”
I stare into the man’s eyes, too afraid to blink mine. “I swear to you. I do not know.”
“Take us where?” Baxter says again, frowning at the man’s back. He’s alert now, slowly becoming aware. Something is very wrong here.
My brain races with panicked thoughts, trying to come up with one that will buy us some time. “What about the money?”
The man cocks his head. The knife is fisted in a gloved hand—a threat and a promise at the same time. No prints, no DNA left behind. A backpack full of tape and rope and weapons. A sore knot ices over in my chest. This man has come prepared. He knows what he’s doing. Maybe he’s done this before.
“What about it?” he says.
“Cam isn’t stupid. He’s done hundreds of deals, and he’ll know to demand proof of life before he gives you anything. You won’t get a cent if all of us are dead.”
Baxter’s eyes goggle at the last word, and he shoves his thumb back in his mouth and sucks hard enough to make his cheeks pucker. Our eyes meet, and I recognize that expression, the way one eyebrow squiggles up and the other down in a way that makes Cam laugh and call him Lord Farquaad.
It means Baxter is a ticking time bomb, one single bad moment away from a meltdown.
The man puffs a breathy laugh, sour meat and bitter coffee. “Cam’s not going to have much of a choice in the matter. Now come on.”
I know I should be projecting calm. I should be stuffing down my own fears in order to protect my son’s emotional well-being. A child should never feel unsafe in his own home. I should be reassuring him everything is okay.
But this is life and death. Literally. And everything isnotokay.
The man rushes me with the knife, and I throw myself backward, but there’s nowhere for me to go. My skull connects with the wall, setting off a burst of fireworks behind my eyes. The room spins with a wave of pain, of terror. I’m vaguely aware that I’m screaming.
Baxter lets out an earsplitting, high-pitched howl, and I know I should console him. My screams are only escalating things, spiraling Bax higher and higher into a panic, like tossing kerosene on a fire.
But I can’t make myself stop. All I see is the knife, streaking closer to my skin. I can’t look away and I can’t stop screaming.
The man touches the tip of the blade to the flesh of my arm, and—
“Baxter,go.Run.”
—saws through the rope in two seconds flat. I suck in a shocked breath, watching him hook the blade under the knot I’d just spent forever twisting to the top of my wrist and give a good tug. The blade slices through the rope and suddenly, my arm is free.
I fall silent, but not Baxter. His back is still flush to the wall, his eyes squeezed into tight slits, his mouth wide in one long, continuous wail.
The man glares over his shoulder. “Baxter, that’s enough.Quiet.” He turns back, his gaze brushing over mine. “Either you shut him up, or I will.”
“Shh, Baxie. Quiet, okay? I’m not hurt. See? Look at me, sweetie. I’m fine.”
The blade is cool and hard where it touches my skin, but the pain isn’t sharp, just a solid pressure where he wriggles the knife between my other wrist and the looped strands of braided vinyl. My ankles are next. The pieces fall away one by one, fluttering to the floor in sloppy yellow coils. My limbs come free, my skin stays intact.
Baxter is still bawling, his back pressed to the wall, but I don’t motion him closer. I don’t dare, not until the man folds the knife in two and drops it back into his pocket. He steps back, and I hold out a shaky arm.
Baxter skitters in a wide arc around him, then launches himself into my lap. His crying stops almost immediately, but he curls into a tight ball and buries his face in my chest, squeezing his eyes shut. I wrap my arms around him and clutch him close, pressing kisses in his hair.
The man watches from by the bed, his calves pressed against the mattress. He shakes his head. “We don’t have time for this. We need to find your devil daughter.”
I plaster on my fiercest, most determined look, and this is where I make the silent vow: before this day is over, I will kill this man. I will steal his gun, cut his throat, smash his head, pummel him into a bloody, broken heap. Surprise him, hurt him, use his rope to hog-tie him, seal his mouth and nose off with his own duct tape. I will do whatever I have to do, but this manwilltake his last breath today.
And I will enjoy every second.
“Fine.” He rolls his eyes, training the gun at my forehead. “The little guy can help us search, but next time he screams like that again, I’m locking him in a closet.”
J A D E
5:07 p.m.