A dog barks in the not-so-far distance, the deep, animated chuffs of a very large, very angry animal, and I picture Sebastian running up on it in a neighbor’s backyard. I’m sure he’s made a run for it by now, and I can’t drum up an ounce of concern that he might have escaped the police. They’ll catch up to him soon enough, and right now I can only think of one thing. I stare at the jagged line of Tanya’s rooftop rising into the darkening sky, and my heart twists into a painful knot.
“Jade.” The voice comes from behind us, and I whirl around to spot Cam dodging police cars as he sprints down the hill.
“Daddy!” Beatrix wrenches her hand from mine and takes off across the grass, racing to meet her father halfway. Their feet hit the asphalt of Club Drive at the same time, and she takes a flying leap that lands her in Cam’s arms. They close around her in an instant.
“Oh my God. Oh my God. You’re okay.” Cam cradles Beatrix to his chest, and I go mushy with relief, with joy. “Thank God, you’re okay.”
“I shot him, Daddy. I shot the bad man.”
“I know, baby cakes, and it almost gave me a heart attack. Please don’t ever do that again. My old heart can’t take it.” His gaze searches out mine like a heat-seeking missile. “Let’s go see Mommy.”
But I’m already almost there, jogging across the lawn, calling to him across the driveway. “I gave him to Tanya, Cam. I didn’t know.”
“Didn’t know what?” He stops at the edge of the grass, taking me in, his brow crumpling. “Oh, babe, your face. I’m so sorry he did that to you.” He reaches out a hand, stops just short of touching my broken cheek with his palm. “I’m sorry for a lot of things.”
I shake my head, tears smearing my vision because now is not the time for apologies. I need Cam to hear me. I need him to understand.
I clamp my fingers around his forearm, the one wrapped around Beatrix’s back, and give it a good shake. “Tanya is Sebastian’s cousin. She has Baxter.”
Understanding flashes on Cam’s face, and from deep in the house come shouts. A child’s scream. A deeper voice barking orders. With a jolt, he shoves Beatrix in my arms and takes off at full sprint for the door.
The police officer isn’t fast enough to stop him, but she stops me, pulling me back by an arm.
Her grip is like a vise on my wrist. “Wait. Wait until it’s safe.”
But when will that be?
I clutch Beatrix tight and think of my sweet, funny baby boy, picturing him safe on Tanya’s couch, blissed out with a belly full of pizza. I think of what I’ll do if that’s the case, all the sacrifices I will make to repay the universe. I’ll see to it that that vile man’s daughter gets her lungs. I’ll donate my house, my jewels, my car if I have to. I’ll do anything.
“If you really want to quit violin, you can, you know.” I press a kiss into my daughter’s hair. “I’m sorry I pushed you so hard.”
All my prodding for Beatrix to log her practice hours, my tiger-mom tendencies and inflated expectations for her future, my pushing her into auditions or the spotlight whenever my friends came around. I told myself it was because as her parent, I was responsible for ensuring she honors this magnificent gift she’s been given by God, by the universe. But maybe her perfectionist tendencies come from me, in an effort to please me.
Which can mean only one thing.
Beatrix is not the one who needs to change.
I am.
I make a silent vow: no more dragging her across town to lessons three times a week. No more hiding the remote because it’s practice time or dismissing her tears because she’s sacrificing yet another social event for the violin. No more bandaging calluses and bloody fingers—not unless she chooses to put them there herself. From now on, whenever Beatrix tells me she wants to quit, I will shower her with kisses and tell her it’s up to her. I will hand her the controls, allow her to dictate the contents of her own life. My daughter can be anything she wants to be. Who am I to decide?
Slowly, she shakes her head against my shoulder.
“Seriously, Bea. You can play piano or softball or take art lessons, or you can lie on the couch and do nothing at all. This is your life, not mine. You get to decide how to fill it.”
“But I don’t want to quit. Not until I get the Locatelli, and even then.” She shakes her head again, and her voice is quiet but resolute. “I don’t want to quit.”
“Then why did you say you wanted to?”