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While he’s gone, I shift Baxter to my opposite hip to give my bicep a break. He’s a deadweight, forty-two pounds of bone and muscle dragging on my shoulder, my back, my neck where his arms hang from it. My entire upper body is on fire, muscles shaking, joints throbbing. But I know what would happen if I put him down: he’d scream and wail and pitch a fit, and I need to save that for when I need a distraction.
“Locked up tight.” He jabs me in the back with his pistol, a harsh gesture that meansmove it.
I lurch forward with a hot burst of adrenaline. If I didn’t have Baxter hanging from me like a monkey, that would have been my chance. I could have lunged for him. I could have grabbed his wrist with one hand, the gun with the other, and wrestled it from his grip like some badass TV spy. I probably would’ve gotten shot, but maybe, just maybe, I could have knocked off his aim to somewhere it wouldn’t kill me. An arm, maybe, or a foot. Bloody and painful, but not fatal. And then I’d grab the gun and shoot him in the face.
But I can’t fight back—I wouldn’t even dare try—not with Baxter clutched to my hip.
That’s when it occurs to me: the most terrifying part of being a parent isn’t this monster holding the gun. It’s the idea that something I do or don’t do could get my children killed. That I could be to blame for their deaths. That they would die, and I would be both a witness and the cause. How would I ever live with myself?
Then again, I probably wouldn’t have to.
Beatrix first, and then Baxter. And I will make you watch.
The third bullet in the gun pressing between my ribs would be for me.
I think of what that would be like for Cam, walking in on three dead bodies, and my eyes go hot with tears. I should have told him I loved him. I should have led with those words before anything else. I should have started the call with the most important.
The man shuffles us farther into the darkness, nudging me down a strip of concrete studded on either side—a future hallway lined with future rooms. He finds the light switch and flips it on, two more dusty bulbs that cast a buttery yellow glow.
“Yo, Beatrix. We know you’re down here, girlie. Might as well come out from whatever old box you’re hiding behind. I promise you nothing bad will happen. I won’t hurt you, but only if you show your faceright now.”
Still nothing. Just a long stretch of strangled silence while I listen for movement above our heads, footsteps or the squeak of a floorboard. Wherever Beatrix is in this house, she’s good and hunkered down.
“Now you.” The scratchy male voice comes with another stab of the muzzle.
“Now me, what?”
“What the hell do you think? Call for your daughter. Tell her to come out of hiding. She’ll listen to you.”
Doubtful. There’s no way my voice is going to coax Beatrix out of hiding, not with a masked man standing right here, holding me and her brother at gunpoint. Beatrix may only be nine, but she’s not stupid, and nobody has ever accused her of being overly obedient. Just ask any of her teachers.
And then there’s also the fact that I don’t want my daughter to be found. I want her to stay hidden until seven, until Cam arrives with his big bag of cash and this man does whatever it is he came here to do.
My mind is finally coming around to what I’ve known in my gut for almost an hour now—this is no textbook ransom plot. Yes, this man held a gun to my head while I assured Cam our lives would be spared, as long as he brought home the money on time.
But he’s already proven he is a liar.
“Do it,” the man says, digging the gun into my ribs. “Tell your daughter to get out here.”
I turn, calling into the darkness. “Beatrix, sweetie. If you’re down here, I need you to come out now. It’s time for you to come out.”
My voice trembles, a combination of fear and red-hot fury. Now I know how the circus lions feel, why they sometimes lose it and chomp off their tamer’s whip-snapping arm. If I didn’t have two children to protect, I’d go for this man’s blood, too.
The only sound is Baxter breathing into my shoulder.
The man gives another thrust to the gun, jabbing it deeper into my bone. “Tell her it’s safe.”
“I don’t think she’s down here.”
The pressure between my ribs releases, the pain dulling to a low throb. My muscles release until I realize the gun isn’t gone; it’s just moved. The muzzle is pressed into Baxter’s thigh.
“Say it.” The mask casts purple shadows on his face, making him look like a monster. His teeth, the golden flecks in his eyes—they flash yellow in the darkness, standing out like ugly headlights.
“Beatrix, sweetie, it’s safe for you to come out. I’ll show you how to play the Partita no. 2. You said you wanted to try a piece in C minor.”
The partita reference, I’m hoping, is a tip-off. Partitas are known for their difficulty, and this one from Johann Bach is long, and it’s fiendish, and it’s in D minor, not C. It’s the piece every violinist aspires to, one of the most difficult ever written, a good fifteen minutes of pure, uninterrupted hell. Me referring to it now is a secret message buried in what sounds like an ordinary sentence.
Come outmeans stay hidden.It’s safeis a warning of danger.