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“You told her you were in a kitchen. When we were downstairs, I mean, the first time you talked to her. You made it sound like you were at work.”
“Well, I lied. I haven’t worked a job in months. When could I when I’m the only parent she’s got? I spend every minute of the day and night taking care of her.”
The man studies me. Frowns. “What’s wrong?”
Is this a trick question? I open my mouth to answer, but the only sound is a clicking of my tongue against the roof of my mouth.
“Why are you all sweaty?” His eyes go squinty, taking me in. “You can stop pretending you give a shit. Your sympathy act doesn’t have me fooled, you know.”
Project calm. Pretend you don’t know. It’s the only way to make it out alive.
I force myself to breathe. “It’s not an act. I’m a parent, too. My children have spent more time than I’d like to think about today being threatened with a gun or a knife, and now my oldest is taped to a chair. I know what it’s like to feel helpless.”
“I’m helpless because of Cam. Cam did this, not me. This is all his fault.”
I press my lips together and say nothing. This man’s money problems are shitty, yes. The consequences for his sick daughter are definitely tragic. Cam may have had a hand in knocking over that first domino, but I still don’t see how any of this is his fault.
I glance at my watch: twenty more minutes. I think of Baxter across the road; my son is in the hands of the enemy. He’s in the enemy’s house. Getting to him is everything, the sun and the stars and the moon. Twenty minutes is an eternity.
I sit up straight and try to breathe and think.
Keep him talking. Survive for twenty more minutes. It’s the only way.
“Where is your daughter now?” I say.
“Don’t worry, she’s not alone. Someone’s looking out for her.”
The coconspirator auntie on the other end of the phone.
I recall his worry about the levels and numbers, that vest and oxygen tank he mentioned just now. Tanya told me all about the vest, an inflatable machine that vibrates and loosens the mucus so the patient can cough it up. It’s like physical therapy for the chest. Her niece wears it twice a day.
“How is she?”
His face fills with worry. “She needs a lung transplant. Real soon.”
“I—”I know, I was about to say, two little words that would tip him off.I know who you are. I know your third coconspirator.
She has my baby boy.
“You what?” he says.
“I’m sorry.”
His phone chirps again, the screen glowing against his masked fingers. Now, finally, he checks the screen. Smiles. Turns it around so I can see.
My heart alights, beating so suddenly that it’s almost painful.
Cam.
The man swipes a thumb across the screen and presses it to his ear. “Cam. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
At her father’s name, Beatrix jerks on her seat, her expression so hopeful it cracks open my heart. My children, both of them, love their mama. I know they do. Whenever they scrape a knee or have a nightmare, when they need a kiss or a cuddle, they come crying to me. But Cam always gets the best of them—the moments when they want to laugh or play or just sit quietly and talk. When they curl up beside him on the couch on the weekend even though they don’t give a flying fig about football. There’s no one they worship more than their father.
And now Beatrix wants nothing more than to believe that her father is about to storm the doors and save her. Saveus.
Honestly, kid: ditto.
“Hang on, hang on. Let me put this on speakerphone so everybody can hear.” The man pulls the phone away and taps the screen, then holds it in a palm. “Okay, big man. How about you say that again.”