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?”
Cam’s pocketknife pulses in my hand.
Beatrix fumbles for the gun, but I lunge and beat her there, plucking it from the floor, swinging it back to Sebastian. I’ve shot a gun only a few times in my life, and if Cam were here he’d tell you I’m the worst shot he’s ever seen. But with less than ten feet between me and my target, I’m certain I could do some damage. Head, torso, heart. I’ll keep shooting until I hit something lethal.
But Sebastian hasn’t moved. He just sits there, slumped against the wall, legs bent like an awkward grasshopper. His knees jut upward, bony caps pointed to the sky.
He presses a palm to his shoulder, wincing. “Do me a favor and make it a kill shot this time, would you? Put me out of my misery.” With a groan, he stretches his legs flat onto the floor. “I can’t be a hundred percent sure, but I’m guessing the only people who will shed a tear for me are the ones watching from those cameras.”
I frown, gaze flitting to the dummy speaker above his head. “What people?”
“Oh, did I forget to tell you? Those camera feeds don’t just stream to your phone. They stream to mine, too, and a couple of other people’s. Oh, and maybe a laptop or two that may or may not be pushing the footage onto the internet. I guess I forgot to mention it.”
Beatrix scoots closer to where I am on my knees. With my free arm, I shove her behind me. “Mommy, what cameras?” she says in my ear.
Sebastian gestures to them—the clock, the speaker, the plastic fire alarm. “One, two, three. Wave for the camera, kid.”
All this time, he’s had access to the cameras. All these months, he’s been watching me, my children, our family, like some creepy, clandestine version of Big Brother.
I stare at him in shock, in horror. “You’ve been spying on us?”
“Don’t look so disgusted. I closed my eyes to your and Cam’s, uh, alone time. I didn’t watch because hell, good on you. Married all these years and still getting it on, bravo for you two lovebirds. But I’m no Peeping Tom. That’s not what any of this is about.”
“What’s it about, then?”
“I just told you. Those three cameras have been uploading today’s action—and hoo boy, has there been some action—to the internet.”
“Why, so there’s video of you killing us?”
The bastard rolls his eyes. “Hello. Who’s the one holding the weapon?”
“You still have a switchblade.”
“I also have a bullet in my shoulder, which hurts like a mother, by the way. And judging from the volume of those sirens outside, cops are about to bust through the front door and storm up here in—” he points a gloved finger to the ceiling, listening “—what do you think—two, three minutes tops? That doesn’t give us much time.”