My Darling Husband(40)

He jabs the gun hard into my forehead, metal on bone. “Where is she? Hiding in a closet? Under a bed? Did she go downstairs? She must have, because if she’d come the other way, I would have seen her.”

I don’t dare move. I barely breathe. And I sure as hell don’t answer. No way I’m giving him any indication of where Beatrix might be. With any luck, she’ll stay there until Cam comes home and this is all over.

Suddenly, the pressure is gone. He takes a couple of steps backward, parking his feet at the edge of the carpet. “You know what I think? I think you know exactly where she is. And I think you’re going to tell me.”

He drops the gun into his pocket, exchanging it for a pocketknife he fishes out of another. No, not a pocketknife, a switchblade, the kind killers use. He presses the button with a thumb, and the blade, long and serrated and curved like a deadly claw, shoots out with a sharp click.

A gun and a knife.

I stare at the razor-edged tip. “I... I already told you, I don’t know where she went.”

He stalks closer, and I push myself backward, even though there’s nowhere for me to go. I’m already deep in the seat’s stuffing. The chair squeaks but doesn’t budge.

“You don’t know this, but a little while ago, your kids and I had a little talk, didn’t we, Bax?”

From the doorway, Baxter gives a solemn nod.

“I told them what would happen if one of them opened a door or a window and tripped the alarm.” He glances behind him, to Baxter sucking his thumb. “Want to tell her what I said, buddy?”

Bax’s answer comes from behind a fist. “Nothing good.”

“Exactly. Nothing good will happen. Only bad. So I’m asking you again, Jade, where is Beatrix? And please note that this is a question, but it’s also a warning. I want you to think long and hard before you answer, because if I find out later you’re lying, I’ll take out Beatrix first, and then Baxter. And I will make you watch.”

Baxter plucks his thumb from his mouth with a soft pop. “Take us out where?”

I stare into the man’s eyes, too afraid to blink mine. “I swear to you. I do not know.”

“Take us where?” Baxter says again, frowning at the man’s back. He’s alert now, slowly becoming aware. Something is very wrong here.

My brain races with panicked thoughts, trying to come up with one that will buy us some time. “What about the money?”

The man cocks his head. The knife is fisted in a gloved hand—a threat and a promise at the same time. No prints, no DNA left behind. A backpack full of tape and rope and weapons. A sore knot ices over in my chest. This man has come prepared. He knows what he’s doing. Maybe he’s done this before.

“What about it?” he says.

“Cam isn’t stupid. He’s done hundreds of deals, and he’ll know to demand proof of life before he gives you anything. You won’t get a cent if all of us are dead.”

Baxter’s eyes goggle at the last word, and he shoves his thumb back in his mouth and sucks hard enough to make his cheeks pucker. Our eyes meet, and I recognize that expression, the way one eyebrow squiggles up and the other down in a way that makes Cam laugh and call him Lord Farquaad.

It means Baxter is a ticking time bomb, one single bad moment away from a meltdown.

The man puffs a breathy laugh, sour meat and bitter coffee. “Cam’s not going to have much of a choice in the matter. Now come on.”

I know I should be projecting calm. I should be stuffing down my own fears in order to protect my son’s emotional well-being. A child should never feel unsafe in his own home. I should be reassuring him everything is okay.

But this is life and death. Literally. And everything is not okay.

The man rushes me with the knife, and I throw myself backward, but there’s nowhere for me to go. My skull connects with the wall, setting off a burst of fireworks behind my eyes. The room spins with a wave of pain, of terror. I’m vaguely aware that I’m screaming.

Baxter lets out an earsplitting, high-pitched howl, and I know I should console him. My screams are only escalating things, spiraling Bax higher and higher into a panic, like tossing kerosene on a fire.

But I can’t make myself stop. All I see is the knife, streaking closer to my skin. I can’t look away and I can’t stop screaming.

The man touches the tip of the blade to the flesh of my arm, and—

“Baxter, go. Run.”

—saws through the rope in two seconds flat. I suck in a shocked breath, watching him hook the blade under the knot I’d just spent forever twisting to the top of my wrist and give a good tug. The blade slices through the rope and suddenly, my arm is free.

I fall silent, but not Baxter. His back is still flush to the wall, his eyes squeezed into tight slits, his mouth wide in one long, continuous wail.

The man glares over his shoulder. “Baxter, that’s enough. Quiet.” He turns back, his gaze brushing over mine. “Either you shut him up, or I will.”

“Shh, Baxie. Quiet, okay? I’m not hurt. See? Look at me, sweetie. I’m fine.”

The blade is cool and hard where it touches my skin, but the pain isn’t sharp, just a solid pressure where he wriggles the knife between my other wrist and the looped strands of braided vinyl. My ankles are next. The pieces fall away one by one, fluttering to the floor in sloppy yellow coils. My limbs come free, my skin stays intact.