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“No.”
“What do you mean, no? I’m the one holding the gun, remember? Now’s not the time to negotiate.”
He gives a blithe shrug. “So shoot me.”
“What about your daughter? How is me shooting you going to get her new lungs?”
“Nothing is a guarantee, Jade. I’ve thought through every possibility of how to save my girl, and none of them is a sure bet.”
“What about your cousin Tanya? Couldn’t she help?”
A momentary flash of surprise—that I’ve done the math, that I’ve connected the dots—before his brows dip back into a frown. “That asshole ex of hers, Thomas, he’s a litigator. Her divorce agreement barely covers enough to feed and clothe the kids and mortgage payments, on a house he still owns. Tanya doesn’t have any money. She’s as broke as you and Cam.”
“What are you talking about? Cam’s not broke. He owns five restaurants. Successful ones.”
“Oh come on. You don’t still believe in that fairy tale, do you? His investors own the restaurants. He owes them more than he can pay.”
“But Cam just told you he has the money. He’ll be here with it any minute.”
“Sure, but we’ve already established your husband is a liar.”
“He wouldn’t lie about something that important.”
“Oh no? Did he tell you he pulled out of the Oakhurst deal because he’s broke? No—not just broke. Your husband is in hock up to his eyeballs.”
I shake my head, a jerky back-and-forth that’s overly forceful. “That’s...that’s not true.”
Itmightbe true. Cam just told Sebastian that his shops were bleeding cash, and I’d have to be blind not to have noticed how about a year ago, Cam started wincing at the first question about work. How overnight, he sprouted frown lines and gray hair, how once frequent invitations from his investors suddenly dried up.
But come on. Money problems? Not with this house, two kids in private school, a daughter under the tutelage of the most sought-after violin teacher in the city. Not with what we spend on cars and clothes and vacations. This past March, when I lost the tennis bracelet and matching earrings Cam gave me one Christmas, he gave me a new set without complaint. Why would he do that if he’s short on cash?
Sebastian draws anXwith a finger on his chest. “Swear to God. Not unless Cam’s suddenly won the lottery and even then, the buzzards would have picked his winnings clean. His creditors aren’t the type to play around.”
Still, it makes no sense. If Sebastian knew there was no possibility of him walking out of here with the cash he needed for his daughter, why put us through all of this? Why risk his own life, hisfreedom, for a mission impossible?
I don’t understand any of it.
A pounding shakes the level beneath us, a boom of a boot against wood, and I know instinctively it’s not Cam. Cam has a key. He wouldn’t need to bust through his own front door.
The police.
Their sirens swirl loud and steady in the falling dusk just outside, and my gaze goes to the front of the house, to the stretch of solid wall bordering the hallway, through the wood and plaster and stone, down the hill to the painted brick two-story home across the street.
Baxter.
His name whispers through my brain, a siren’s song tugging me to him, a gravitational pull between me and my son. I don’t care about Sebastian, bleeding onto my wall. I don’t care about tying him down or shooting him in the face or taking out both his kneecaps. I don’t even care if he gets away. I can only think of one thing.
I drop the tape to the floor and grab my daughter’s hand.
J A D E
7:09 p.m.
Beatrix and I race down the stairs to the main floor, cloaked in shadow because nobody thought to turn on the lights.
It’s a way I know by heart, and I’m navigating the dim space when I run smack into a body, a head-on collision with the human wall at the bottom of the stairs.
Two massive men, big and solid like bouncers, their bodies blocking the way like giant boulders. I ricochet off their thick chests, and then I clutch Beatrix to me and scream.