“I understand,” I say, but it’s not my answer he’s looking for.
It’s Beatrix’s.
The man stands there, waiting, while in my mind I tick off the sharpest, most deadly weapons in the house. The knives, the cast-iron pans in the drawer, the tools hanging from Cam’s workbench downstairs. Even if I could somehow manage to get to one, can it go up against a gun? I’d have to catch this guy off guard, sink the blade in the fleshy part of his throat or an eyeball, bury it deep before he even noticed it was coming—a challenge with a man so big, so broad, his eyes ever watching from behind the mask. The timing would have to be perfect, my attack smooth and without hesitation. Not exactly a master plan.
And then something else occurs to me, something that sends up a sour, bitter wave.
If I get myself killed, who will watch out for my children?
“Beatrix,” the man says, leveling his gaze on my daughter. “I asked you a question. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
Answer him, baby. Nod. Let him know you understand.
Beatrix’s chin quivers, but she doesn’t otherwise move. She stares straight ahead, breathing hard.
Frustration mixes with fear mixes with pride. Beatrix is stubborn, just like her father. She has been since the second she came screaming into the world, fists slinging. Just last month, she went through a phase where she existed on saltines and air, where no matter how much I begged or prodded or threatened or coaxed or cried, she refused to take so much as a single bite of anything else. A chef’s daughter, and the pickiest eater ever. She wore me down, every single night. The calories in a pack of saltines may be empty, but at least they’re calories.
And now…
Now I recognize that look on her face—the squinty eyes, the puckered mouth—and it terrifies me because I know what it means.
“So you’re one of those, huh?”
Beatrix frowns. Her expression says, One of what? but she’s too proud to say the words out loud. Her left-hand fingers are going nuts, tapping out a silent melody against her thigh—something she does when she’s bored or nervous or uncomfortable.
The man knocks his skull with a knuckle, then leans with both arms onto the counter. “A hard nut to crack.” His arms are crossed at the wrist, the gun held casually in a fist. It jiggles as he talks, and the positioning is purposeful. “Obstinate. Headstrong. Admirable traits when they come in small doses, but beware, young lady. They can also be your downfall.”
I stare at the gun, tracing a line between the muzzle and a freckle just above Beatrix’s left brow. One tweak to the trigger and there’s a hole in my daughter’s head. The thought snags on repeat through my brain and echoes.
If this man shoots my daughter, I will murder him.
“So now I am gonna need an answer. A clear yes or no. I need to know you heard what I was saying just now about rules and boundaries. I need to know that I can count on you to follow them. Can I do that, Beatrix? Can I trust you not to do anything crazy?”
“The phone’s mine,” I say, tensing up on my chair. “Whatever you need to say, leave her out—”
“Shh.” The man punctuates the hiss with a flick of the gun in my direction. The laughing, chummy jokester from a few minutes ago is long gone, discarded like a crumpled napkin. The bastard aims the gun at my daughter’s head, and I brace, half expecting the pop of a gunshot, the gritty smell of gunpowder.
But there’s nothing, only horrible quiet.
I breathe through a flash of scalding panic.
“Answer the question, Beatrix. Can I trust you or not?”
I nudge Beatrix’s chest with my elbow. Give her knee a painful squeeze. The tapping stops, and her fingers freeze, then stiffen on her thigh.
Beatrix, for the love of God. Say yes to the man with the gun. Answer him.
Beatrix’s chest heaves. Her hands ball into tight fists, her silent struggle obvious. This is Beatrix arming for combat. Planting her flag, sticking to her guns. The seconds stretch, swelling with a torturous silence. Even Bax leans across me to prod her with a finger in the arm.
“Beatrix, please,” I whisper. “Please.”
“Yeah.” She frowns at the cheese sticks sweating on the paper towels, the bunches of untouched grapes, and sighs. “You can trust me.” The I guess is silent but unmistakable.
The man straightens. Nods. Eats another grape, and that’s that.
I wilt with relief, even though I know my daughter, and I know she doesn’t mean a single word.
S E B A S T I A N