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“Stop talking. And move back more.” Beatrix enunciates each word slowly, deliberately. “Please don’t make me say it again.”
It’s a phrase I say to the kids often, and in exactly that same tone, and my words coming out of my daughter’s mouth wrap around my heart and squeeze. It never works on them, either.
Sebastian’s soles stay planted to the floor.
I slide onto my knees on the carpet. I’m afraid any sudden movement will set Beatrix off. Slowly, steadily, I stretch my hand farther.
“He’s right, baby. You’re so brave, but let me handle this, okay? Give Mommy the gun.”
Except for two candy-red spots high on her cheeks, Beatrix’s face is shockingly pale, white and translucent like melted candle wax, like a body dredged from the depths. The effect is terrifying, especially when coupled with her voice, high with icy anger.
“No. Not until he gets back to the wall. All the way. Mommy, make him move.”
The sirens are getting steadier now, undulating waves through the air on the back side of the house, which means they’ve made the turn into the neighborhood.
“Sweetie, give me the gun.”
Beatrix’s body is wound tight, her shoulder muscles bunched under her pink polka-dot shirt.
Sebastian’s gaze flicks to mine, his eyes going wide, likedo something. “Put the gun down, missy.”
“I’m not your missy.”
I move on my knees, edging closer to curl my hand around Beatrix’s, take control of the gun and shoot Sebastian in the head. And just to be sure, I’ll shoot him in the heart, too.Bang bang. Dead.
And then I will carry this gun out the door and across the road and point it at Tanya until she gives me back my son. I will tear her limbs from her body if I have to.
Sebastian points a gloved finger to the ceiling. “Hear that? They’ll be here any minute.”
I keep my eyes on Sebastian, the gun a black blur in my periphery. “It’s true, sweetie. The police are on their way. They’re coming to save us. Let them handle this, please. Give the gun to me.”
I reach for the gun, at the same time Beatrix steps to the side, and my hand swipes air. I don’t try again because I know that expression, the way her eyes and jaw are locked down tight. There’s no way she’s putting that weapon down, not even for me. Not even for the police.
Beatrix’s finger tightens around the trigger.
Sebastian’s gaze zeroes in on the gun. “Hey, watch it there. That gun has a heavy recoil. You might want to loosen up on that trigger.”
Beatrix lifts the gun higher, aiming it at Sebastian’s chest.
Dead center.
“Okay, fine, you got me, but don’t do anything you’re going to regret. Once you pull that trigger, there’s no going back. You can’t take back a bullet.”
My daughter squeezes her eyes and the trigger.
J A D E
7:02 p.m.
Unlike my daughter’s, my eyes are wide-open. I see the flash of the gun as the bullet takes flight, the way the recoil is a sledgehammer to Beatrix’s shoulder, how it pops her clear off her feet, bounces her body off the recliner and sends her sprawling.
I see the bullet smack Sebastian high on a shoulder, the spatter of blood where it enters his skin, the way it punches his torso into the wall. I see the smear he leaves on the eggshell paint as he slides down to the ground, the way his lips curl upward into a smile.
“I told you somebody’d get shot at the first sign of sirens. Didn’t I tell you that?”
My ears are still ringing from the gunshot, but I hear his breathy laughter loud and clear. Another stupid, demented joke. Despite the bullet, despite the blood turning his shirt shiny, he’s pleased with himself.
His gaze wanders to Beatrix, still half-flopped on the floor, to the gun lying next to her on the carpet. Her face is still fish-belly white, but those two spots on her cheeks are so red they’re almost purple. “I gotta give you props, kid. You’ve been an excellent adversary. A real pain in my ass, but an excellent adversary. I didn’t even see you cut yourself loose. What’d you use—a knife? Scissors?”