My Darling Husband(10)
His words are pleasant enough but not his tone, so hostile that my nerves stir with fright. I can hear the thoughts tripping through his brain. That we have too much. That he has too little. It’s such an about-face from his demeanor in the garage, calm and matter-of-fact even when waving around his gun, it makes my legs go mushy.
I push my words through clenched teeth: “What now?”
If the man hears me, he doesn’t respond. He’s too busy exploring, moving through the back part of the house, taking in the furnishings. The custom rug in the keeping room, the portrait of the kids that covers a whole wall, the Marcel Wanders chandelier with more than three hundred twinkling lights. He takes it all in with greedy, observant eyes.
The room is spinning, and I need to sit down, but I’m too afraid to move. I stand in the doorway of the mudroom, Baxter clinging to me. Beatrix stands on my other side, her back ramrod straight, her feet shoulder-width apart like Miss Juliet is always coaching. I wrap a hand around each of my children, pressing them close until there’s no air between us.
He’s almost to the living room now. Only a few more steps and he’ll be in full view of anyone who happens to be outside. Runners. Bikers. Neighbors out walking their dog. We live on the edge of a golf course, and this is an active, busy neighborhood.
Suddenly, he lurches to a stop, parking his soles at the edge of the keeping room. One more step and he’ll be in full view of whoever’s out on the street. If I were closer, I could plant both hands on his chest and shove him there, screaming loud enough to get their attention.
But I can’t see from where I’m standing. I can’t tell if there’s anyone out there. Probably, but I only get one chance. I can’t waste it until I know for sure.
Behind the dark fabric of his mask, his lips stretch into a thin line. “I heard you say something about a snack.”
“You...” I shake my head. Is he playing with me? “You want a snack?”
“No, the kids want one. Don’t you, kids?” He peers into the footed white fruit bowl perched on the edge of the breakfast bar and fishes out a red apple, holding it up like the evil stepmother. “Beatrix and—what’s the little guy’s name?”
The bony arm wrapped around my thigh tightens. I don’t want to say my son’s name out loud. I don’t want his name on this monster’s tongue.
The man waits. His smile disappears. He cocks his head with faux curiosity, and his eye sockets look bruised in the bright lights of the kitchen. I wonder if he’s tired, or maybe sick. I wonder if his health has anything to do with why he’s here, if this is about money or something else.
He points to Baxter with the gun, a silent threat. “Jade, I just asked you a question.”
“Baxter.” I push my son behind me, but I’m not exactly the best cover. I’m five foot four on the best of days, and I’m in yoga gear, skintight leggings over legs that have always fallen on the wrong side of skinny. “Please. He’s only six.”
The man steps closer, his footsteps magnified on the hardwood. We scurry backward into the mudroom until there’s nowhere left for us to go, until we’re pressed between the shoe cubbies and a wall.
He squats, putting him eye to eye with the kids. “Baxter. Beatrix. That’s some nice names you two got there. Real fancy. Are y’all hungry?”
The y’all is genuine, as is his slight Southern twang. A detail I file away in my brain for later.
Both kids shake their heads.
The man pushes to a stand, gesturing for them to follow. “Come on. Let’s get you something to eat.”
He ambles into the kitchen like it’s his own, stepping to the opposite side of the breakfast bar, heading for the glass-front cabinet with the plates and glasses. He pulls out four plates, then spreads them across the marble-topped island. “How about you, Jade? You look like you could use a sandwich or something.”
I don’t respond. The kids and I don’t move. We stare at him from the mudroom, our soles superglued to the floor.
I eye the distance, a good forty feet and a long stretch of marble between us, then glance at the door we just came through, calculating how far I could get with a kid on each hip. Or maybe Beatrix could run on her own. She’d probably be faster than I would be anyway, plodding across the terrace in these flip-flops, Baxter flailing under an arm. We’d never make it to the gate before he chased us down, dragged us back inside and put a bullet in one or all of our brains. And even if I threw the door open and took off, it wouldn’t trip the alarm and alert the cops, not immediately anyway. He’d have a full sixty seconds to tick in the code he just watched me use twice now.
Better to wait for a chance to escape out one of the other doors—the steel-and-glass ones that lead to the covered patio, or one of the French sets at the front of the house. That way, as soon as our feet hit the outside ground, the alarm will already be wailing.
The man’s voice pulls me back. “Jade. Not a good idea.”
I look over to where he’s standing, a plate in one hand and his gun in the other, watching me like he can read my mind. Like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Acid bubbles up in a fiery wave, like heartburn.
He leans over the sink and taps the bar, three clacks against the marble with the butt of his gun. He nods at the chairs, four leather-covered stools lined up like sentries on the opposite side. “Don’t just stand there. Make yourselves at home.”