As he moves around my kitchen, opening drawers and poking through cabinets, I note all the details I was too traumatized to take in before. His basic T-shirt, plain and black with no identifying logos or tags, the fabric stretched tight across a big barreled chest. Compared to his torso his arms are thin, the long sleeves loose all the way down to cuffs that bump up against tight-fitting gloves, the kind with rubber fingertips that work on a cellphone screen. His black sneakers are unscuffed, new and fresh out of the box. He pulls a knife from the block by the stove, and I catch a glint of something at his neckline, a flash of a flat golden chain, but it slides back under his shirt before I can see more.
And most chilling, the back of his head is smooth. No lump of wadded hair under the mask, no pockmarks on his skin by his lips.
I’m certain now: this is not the same man who was at Beatrix’s music lesson, the same man who’s been following me all over town. The realization slithers through me like an eel, ice-cold and slippery. This is someone different.
He digs a box from a cabinet and jiggles it in the air. “Cheez-Its. Pretty sure every kid on earth likes these things.”
He dumps some onto one of the plates and steps around to the other side of the island, choosing a strategic spot between the counter and the fridge. Holding his gun trained on us, he tugs on the handle with his other hand, taking in the contents of the fully stocked fridge with an impressed hum. The labeled shelves and bins, the outward facing jars, the neat stacks of plastic containers filled with sliced vegetables and fruits. A chef’s fridge is a beautiful thing.
I watch him and I notice everything, committing every detail to memory so that I can recite it later—to the cops, in a courtroom.
Assuming we survive.
Either way, this will be all over the news. An armed and masked man, forcing his way into a celebrity chef’s home in a country-club neighborhood. What happens here will go far beyond Atlanta’s nightly newscasts. Reporters all over the country will spend hours reporting on today’s timeline, nitpicking the second-to-second details, amplifying my every move and mistake. My picture and those of the kids will be flashed on every LCD screen across the country. Even if we don’t survive—especially then—people will know our names. They will recognize our faces. The kind of fame no one wishes for.
He pulls out a packet of string cheese and studies the nutritional information. “If you’re going to eat this crap, you should probably go for the full-fat version. Because this just tastes like salty plastic, but hey. Eight grams of protein, so I guess it’s not all bad.”
He rips off three portions and tosses them across the kitchen to me. The throw falls short, and they bounce off the edge of the bar and land in the sink with a slap. I leave them there while he washes a bag of green grapes at the far sink.
Under the marble of the bar overhang, Beatrix’s hand crawls across my lap.
No, not her hand. Something smooth and cool and hard, and I don’t have to look down to know it’s my iPhone.
Clever, clever girl.
I pat her leg in silent praise, then lift the phone from my leg, feeling around on the sides to figure out which way is up.
“So.” The man shakes the water from the bag of grapes and carries it around the island. “Let’s talk about your security system.”
Three feet between us at most, separated by a stretch of marble counter. I slide the cell phone down my leg, balancing it on a knee, trying to remember how to call 9-1-1 without using the keypad. Three clicks to one of the side buttons? Four? I try it, three rapid-fire clicks, but I don’t dare to look down because now he’s staring right at me. His squinty eyes pinned on mine, waiting for me to answer. I remind myself to breathe.
“Hello, earth to Jade. Your security system?”
I clear my throat. “What about it?”
“Your pad has a panic button.”
I nod. The technician, a potbellied man who told me to call him Big Jim, said if I ever pressed it, I had better make sure I meant business because the police would show up with guns blazing. He also said I had to press it for a minimum of three full seconds in order for the silent alarm to activate, and I remember thinking three seconds seemed like an eternity when there’s someone coming at you with a gun.
Now I’m wishing I’d asked him to install a couple of strategically placed hidden ones—right here under this breakfast bar, for example.
I duck my head, tucking a hank of hair behind an ear, using the motion to chance a glance at my iPhone screen.
The screen is completely black. Shit. I waited too long.