My Darling Husband(60)

But I was too cocky, too damn eager to prove I was a better businessman than my father. I had to own my own shop, and I opened my doors when restaurants all over the country were shutting theirs. Maybe that’s my problem, that success the first time around ruined me. I’d already weathered what everybody was calling a once-in-a-lifetime recession. When I ran up against another wall, I just figured I’d scale it all over again. I figured I could overcome anything.

George was right. I really am a dick.

Even worse: I am my father.

I reach for Maxim’s phone, dragging the machine around to my side of the desk, plucking the receiver from the tray.

Maxim frowns. “Who are you calling?”

“The police. If I tell them to sneak in without sirens, maybe they won’t get anybody killed.” I tap in the numbers and my sinuses burn, that achy feeling right before the waterworks. This is it. It’s time. I don’t have any options left.

The line rings once, then goes dead. Maxim’s yellow-tinged finger is stomped on the button, holding it down.

“Cam.” He shakes his head. “This is not a job for the police. Trust me on this.”

“Then what? How?”

Maxim leans back in his chair, looking over my head at the others, the two big bouncers and the man-bunned Nick, then back to me. “I have a few ideas.”



T H E   I N T E R V I E W


Juanita: I’m sorry. I know we’ve covered this already, but I’m still stuck on the fact that you didn’t call the police. Especially once you realized you couldn’t gather the ransom. You knew you were out of options, you just told me you didn’t have the money to save them, and still you decided not to call the police.

Cam: Is there a question in there somewhere?

Juanita: Yes.

Cam: [silence]

Juanita: Don’t you want to answer it?

Cam: No.

Juanita: No, you didn’t call the police, or no, you don’t want to answer? Which one?

Cam: Both. Next question.

Juanita: Fine. You testified that you managed to stitch together just over $49,000 from numerous accounts, that you placed the cash for the ransom in a box on the floorboard of your truck, and then...what? Where is that money now?

Cam: Maybe you haven’t heard, but I recently filed for bankruptcy. My property was seized and is being sold off to pay back investors and debtors. Whatever cash I had on hand, whatever else I owned of value...it’s all gone. My possessions were picked clean.

Juanita: Yes, but that $49,000, there’s no record of it in any of your bankruptcy documents. I know I’m not the only one who’s wondering, where did that money go? Who has it now?

Cam: [smiles] I don’t know, Juanita. But if you find out, I’d sure like to know.



J A D E


6:12 p.m.


The man shoves me into the kitchen, where he points me to the bar stools.

“Sit.” He punctuates the order by thrusting the gun at my face.

I hoist myself onto a stool.

“Stay.”

I don’t move.

Good dog.

He moves around the counter into the kitchen, settling the gun onto the island. “Now, let’s try this again. Where is Beatrix?”

With any luck, she’s in one of those boxes downstairs, or in a dark corner of the attic, or shimmying down a drainpipe and bolting for the neighbors.

“I don’t know.”

The man rolls his eyes, grabbing a kitchen towel and yanking open the freezer. While he fills the towel with ice cubes, I take in the damage I did with Cam’s screwdriver through the twelve-inch tear in his shirt. Underneath, almost as long, a seeping cut is slashed through the pasty skin between his collarbones, like a bloody ditch sliced through raw chicken. It leaks a red curtain down his back. Beneath it, all the way down to his waistline, the fabric is stuck to his skin.

My skin tingles with a triumphant shiver. I didn’t kill him, but I made him bleed. I maimed him. That’s going to leave a nasty scar.

“If you know where she’s hiding, you might as well just tell me now. Because I’m going to find her.”

“I already told you. I don’t know.”

He ties the four ends of the towel around the ice, picks up his gun and carries both across the kitchen. He stares at me, and my heart gives an ominous thud. “Here.” He stretches out an arm, the ice rattling in his hand. “This will slow down the swelling.”

I take the makeshift compress and hold it to my cheek, hissing when it hits the skin.

“Is it broken, you think?”

I don’t respond. I’ve never broken a cheekbone before so I have no idea, and even if I did, I don’t know what the appropriate answer is here. Does he want it to be broken? Better to say nothing at all.

“Where haven’t we looked?”

“Upstairs. It’s the only place left.”

And it’s possible. Maybe she snuck back up while we were searching the basement. Maybe she was going for the upstairs windows because she knows they’re the only ones in the house without sensors, so opening one wouldn’t have tripped the alarm. If she climbed out the playroom window, she could have crawled out onto a patch of roof that’s only gently pitched, the overhang right above the patio. From there, a drop to the terrace tiles below wouldn’t have broken any bones. Probably.