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“But first we need to set the alarm. And here’s the deal. Before the nosy neighbor lady, I might have trusted you enough to leave you here for a few seconds while I did it, but that’s over and done. You just showed me I can’t trust you, which means you’re just going to have to come with.”
He grabs a handful of my shirt and tugs hard, and I lurch forward into the hallway, almost slipping on the glass. By the time I’m upright, he’s behind me, the gun aimed at my torso, and we march single file to the alarm pad in the bedroom, where I tick in the code.
“Just 2-9-2-1,” he says from over my shoulder. “No funny business.”
When I’m done, he tips his head in the direction of the wall and beyond to the front door. “Now go.”
On my way, I pause to peek into the rooms on either side of the foyer, searching for signs of Beatrix.
Nothing in the dining room, but there’s also no place to hide other than inside the antique buffet, which is jammed full of dishes we hardly ever use—the gold-rimmed wedding china that can’t go in the dishwasher and the hideous Christmas service Cam’s mother gave us as a wedding present. No way she could squeeze in there, not without making a racket.
I look to my left, in the study.
Many more places for her to choose from here—behind the doors of the built-in cabinets under the bookshelves, for example, or tucked inside one of the covered ottomans. I do a quick scan of the room, but the only sign either of the kids have been here is the mess spread across Cam’s desk, colored markers and tape and a messy stack of blank papers one of them pulled from the printer.
There’s movement at the bottom of the hill. A teenager being tugged down the road by a black Great Dane, who stops to sniff around the mailbox.
I glance behind me. The man is tucked out of sight, hidden behind the wall to the stairs. From his angle, he won’t be able to see how slow I’m moving, the way I’m shaking the screwdriver out of my sleeve while waving my free arm at the girl and her dog. I’m clearly in distress. Maybe this girl will see a panicked, frenzied woman freaking out inside her own front door and think to call for help.
Look up look up look up.
She doesn’t look up. The dog lifts its massive leg and squirts its scent all over my gardenia bush, but the girl is too absorbed by whatever is on her phone. She keeps her head down, scrolling with a thumb.
“Jade.” The voice is low and impatient, and it carries an unmistakable warning. “What’s taking so long?”
Down at the road, the beast gives a mighty tug, and the teenager lurches forward, her phone popping out of her hand. She catches it in midflight and doesn’t miss a beat. Walking and scrolling, walking and scrolling.For Christ’s sake, girl, look up.Not once does she lift her head.
Shit. Shit shit shit.
My ears ring with building pressure and the realization comes to me like a whisper. It’s up to me now. I clasp the screwdriver in a tight fist, testing the point on my palm. Good and sharp, but I’ll have to come at him hard. His neck, his temple, that soft spot between his shoulder blades. I’ll have to put all my weight and strength behind it. One chance, that’s all I get.
“You’re gambling with your life here, Jade. With your children’s lives. If you want tonight to have a happy ending, I suggest you stop playing around and lock the damn door.”
With one last hopeful gaze up the empty street, I steel myself to what happens next. No more waiting on the cops or some heroic neighbor. No more waiting for Cam to save us. Now is my chance. I’m not about to miss.
I fill my lungs with air and courage, then flip the dead bolt.
J A D E
5:50 p.m.
I turn away from the door and I don’t break stride. I take the long way across the foyer tiles, making an arc around the entryway table so I can pick up some speed, gain some momentum. This man is bigger and stronger than me, but if I come on hard and fast, maybe I can take him by surprise.
I’m going to have to surprise him.
At the edge of the foyer, I pivot, turning my torso so the thin slice of steel I wriggled out of my right sleeve is concealed. I feel the weight of the screwdriver in my fist, the hard solidness of the butt my thumb is wrapped around.
One shot. That’s all I get. One risky, raging shot. Better make it count.
“Who’s Ruby?” He leans against the short slice of wall at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for me. The gun dangles in a hand, his other wrapped around my iPhone. He holds it up, wags it in the air by his face. “Who is she, and why does she hate you so much?”
I probably shouldn’t be as insulted as I am. I blink, force myself to shake it off. “Ruby doesn’t hate me.”
He flips the phone around, giving me a flash of what he’s looking at—the long string of message bubbles from my bossy older sister. Ruby likes to dominate every conversation. “Who is she?”
“Ruby is my sister. And she doesn’t hate me.”
“Well, she doesn’t like you very much, that’s for sure.” He drops his head and reads from the screen, raising his voice a good octave. “‘I know you’re so so busy going to book clubs and managing your house staff and all, but stop being such a dick. Last time I checked, I was the single mom with the full-time job, not you, so stop with this princess bullshit and do your part for Dad’s party.’” He looks up with a half grin. “She sounds nice.”