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Something cool presses against my forehead, the hard metal pressing into my skin.
“Beatrix!” His shout is a loud roar.
I flinch hard enough to fall off my chair. The movement and the terror are messing with my equilibrium, and the world turns upside down. I open my eyes, just a slit, enough to catch my balance. The gun is still there, pressed against my forehead, but the man has his head turned, screaming over his shoulder into the living room and beyond.
“You get your sneaky little butt out here right now, missy, otherwise I’m putting a bullet in your mother’s skull. You have ten seconds to decide, not a second more, so you better get here fast.”
He pauses to listen, but there’s nothing but dead air and the sound of light panting—mine.
“Ten...nine...eight.”
I think of Baxter across the street, how I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. I think of Beatrix having to live with the knowledge she got her mother killed. I think of Cam, and the older version of him I’ll never get to see.
Please, God,pleaselet Beatrix be miles and miles away by now.
The pressure on my forehead releases, leaving behind a dull, empty throbbing. I open my eyes and he’s walking away, that angry gash already drying up on his back. He stops at the doorway to the living room and shouts into the house.
“Seven...six...five... Four more and then Mommy’s dead.”
Deep breaths. In. Out. Deep breaths.
“Four...three...”
Tears tap my lap, evaporating into the dry-fit fabric on my leggings. I stare at the man’s back, a tall shadow in the doorway to the living room, and sweat drips down my spine. I consider calling out to Beatrix—Don’t take the bait. Stay hidden. I love you—but the words jam in my throat. I swallow a lump, thick and soggy like a wet towel.
“Two...say goodbye to your mom forever...”
I squeeze my eyes, and my thoughts wander, disconnected and drifting along all the unfinished items on my to-do list. The kids’ school projects, in a box downstairs. Thousands of their pictures, forever lost on my phone. The career I’ll never get to pick back up, all the design jobs I’ll never get to do. That stupid argument with my sister, the dumb decorations gathering dust downstairs. I remember our last screaming match, unchangeable history, every ugly word.
“Last chance, kiddo.”
Oh God, Cam. I’m sorry.
I couldn’t save them.
The man hauls a breath for the final count, then—
“WAIT.”
It comes from somewhere deep in the house, a high and panicked shout muffled by wood and stone and drywall. A floorboard creaks above my head.
“Wait. Don’t shoot. I’mcoming.”
I want to scream and wail and weep—with relief, with dread. Beatrix didn’t crawl out an upstairs window. She didn’t run to a neighbor’s house. There’s no sniper outside the windows. Nobody’s coming to save us but Cam.
The man glances over his shoulder at me, his teeth flashing. “Lucky you. Looks like you get to live a little while longer.”
Forty minutes, according to the microwave clock. Forty minutes for Cam to get here with the money.
And then what? What happens then?
The stairs creak with a body’s weight, Beatrix emerging from wherever she’s been, giving herself up to save me. The weight of her sacrifice steals my breath, and I make a silent vow that it won’t be in vain. My daughter will live to see tomorrow even if I don’t.
All I need to do is keep her alive for another forty minutes.
S E B A S T I A N
6:20 p.m.