He points to Baxter with the gun, a silent threat. “Jade, I just asked you a question.”
“Baxter.” I push my son behind me, but I’m not exactly the best cover. I’m five foot four on the best of days, and I’m in yoga gear, skintight leggings over legs that have always fallen on the wrong side of skinny. “Please. He’s only six.”
The man steps closer, his footsteps magnified on the hardwood. We scurry backward into the mudroom until there’s nowhere left for us to go, until we’re pressed between the shoe cubbies and a wall.
He squats, putting him eye to eye with the kids. “Baxter. Beatrix. That’s some nice names you two got there. Real fancy. Are y’all hungry?”
The y’all is genuine, as is his slight Southern twang. A detail I file away in my brain for later.
Both kids shake their heads.
The man pushes to a stand, gesturing for them to follow. “Come on. Let’s get you something to eat.”
He ambles into the kitchen like it’s his own, stepping to the opposite side of the breakfast bar, heading for the glass-front cabinet with the plates and glasses. He pulls out four plates, then spreads them across the marble-topped island. “How about you, Jade? You look like you could use a sandwich or something.”
I don’t respond. The kids and I don’t move. We stare at him from the mudroom, our soles superglued to the floor.
I eye the distance, a good forty feet and a long stretch of marble between us, then glance at the door we just came through, calculating how far I could get with a kid on each hip. Or maybe Beatrix could run on her own. She’d probably be faster than I would be anyway, plodding across the terrace in these flip-flops, Baxter flailing under an arm. We’d never make it to the gate before he chased us down, dragged us back inside and put a bullet in one or all of our brains. And even if I threw the door open and took off, it wouldn’t trip the alarm and alert the cops, not immediately anyway. He’d have a full sixty seconds to tick in the code he just watched me use twice now.
Better to wait for a chance to escape out one of the other doors—the steel-and-glass ones that lead to the covered patio, or one of the French sets at the front of the house. That way, as soon as our feet hit the outside ground, the alarm will already be wailing.
The man’s voice pulls me back. “Jade. Not a good idea.”
I look over to where he’s standing, a plate in one hand and his gun in the other, watching me like he can read my mind. Like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Acid bubbles up in a fiery wave, like heartburn.
He leans over the sink and taps the bar, three clacks against the marble with the butt of his gun. He nods at the chairs, four leather-covered stools lined up like sentries on the opposite side. “Don’t just stand there. Make yourselves at home.”
A joke. A stupid, lame joke. He grins with demented cheer.
I stare back at him, trying to appear fearless or at least courageous, defiant even though what I really want to do is cry. Big, shuddering sobs are threatening to burst up my throat, and I struggle to swallow them down. Maybe if I shove the kids out the door, I can hold him off long enough for them to get away. Maybe if I grab on to the doorway and plant my feet hard enough, I can turn myself into a human bottleneck. This man may be armed, he may be bigger and so much stronger than me, but I won’t think twice. I would gladly sacrifice myself for my kids.
He shoots a pointed glance at the stools, nodding harder. “I said, sit. While the kids are eating, you and I can have a little talk.”
With a shaky breath, I take Beatrix and Baxter by the hands, sweat-slick and sticky, and lead them to the kitchen. Frozen with fright, they just stand there, so I heave them onto the bar stools, first Beatrix, then Bax, and push the chairs flush to the marble so they don’t fall out. I sink onto the one in the middle and fight to control my breathing, to keep my little sips of air from turning into panicked gulps. I grab on to the kids’ armrests and scoot their chairs in close, until the pads of their seats are flush with mine.
Wait him out.
At some point he’ll make a mistake, and then I’ll have my chance. The trick is to be ready.
“So what are y’all in the mood for? Fruit? Carrot sticks dipped in ranch sauce?”
Beatrix stares at the counter. Baxter buries his face in my bicep, and I wrap my arm around him and press him to my side. The last thing any of us is thinking about is food.
“Okay, then,” the man says, shrugging. “How ’bout I just surprise you, then?”