Juanita: I did ask them.
Cam: And?
Juanita: They said you loved Jade. That you would never cheat on her.
Cam: [spreads hands]
Juanita: But the point I’m trying to make is all the information, much of it false, that is circulating about your part in what happened to your family. Many say you’re to blame, that your silence created a space for rumors and conspiracy theories.
Cam: That may be true, but this is my life we’re talking about. I mean, I know the restaurants put me in the spotlight before the home invasion, but that was nothing compared to you people camped out in front of the house day and night, ambushing me in the gym and the grocery store. Nobody wants that kind of attention. I certainly don’t.
Juanita: Because the public is fascinated by what happened. For most of us, a home invasion is just about the most terrifying thing we can imagine. The thought of a stranger ambushing you as you’re coming in the door and forcing their way into your house, threatening you and your children. It’s everyone’s worst nightmare.
Cam: Then just imagine it happening to the people you love most in this world. That’s so much worse than experiencing it yourself.
Juanita: Except this wasn’t just any old home invasion, was it? The masked man wasn’t a stranger. None of this was random.
Cam: [sighs] Not even a little bit.
J A D E
3:27 p.m.
“Not bad.”
The man pokes his head around the corner, checking out the space where the mudroom spills into the house. He takes in the sleek chef’s kitchen that was featured in Bon Appétit, the keeping room with a giant sectional facing a fireplace topped with a flat screen, the more formal living room that made the cover of Atlanta Homes & Lifestyles, every piece lovingly designed and selected by me. Hours and hours of my very best work.
“Nice place you got here.” He turns back with an appreciative nod, and I swallow down a sour tremor.
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.