And the remote, which I’d stuck in her hand after duct taping her arms to the armrests, she somehow manages to hurl across the room like a Frisbee. That’s what Baxter called me over for, to tell me the channel needed changing and Beatrix had accidentally dropped the remote on the floor.
I take in the distance from her fingertips to the remote, lying upside down by the far wall. Eleven feet, maybe more, and pitched high enough to clear the coffee table. All that, with one flick of her wrist. I hate to admit it, but it’s impressive, really. Somebody sign this kid up for baseball.
But still.
That doesn’t change the fact that Beatrix is trouble. That stubborn act of defiance downstairs in the kitchen, the remote, her feral scream just now. She might be skinny, but she’s a spitfire with a vicious streak to go with that ridiculous hair. On a normal day, I bet she’s a handful.
And that finger tapping. A constant and random rapid-fire drumming of her left hand. A nervous tic? Some kind of secret code? I check in with her brother, who’s staring openmouthed at the TV. Completely oblivious.
Across the hall, Jade blubbers for her daughter, begging Beatrix to tell her what’s wrong, assuring her that everything’s okay. It’s a lie, of course. Jade knows that everything is not okay. Not even close. Not unless Super Cam can swoop in and save the day.
“Beatrix, please,” Jade hollers from across the hall. “Answer me! What’s happening over there?”
Beatrix lies on her plush leather recliner like a slug, her glare stuck to the ceiling. Chest heaving, limbs splayed, slack at the ankles and the forearms where they’re pinned down by multiple layers of duct tape.
But at least she’s comfortable. I made sure of it when I put her there. I reclined the damn seat as far as it would go. I attached the tape to her socks and not the bare skin of her ankles so it wouldn’t pull the fine blond hairs. I even let the siblings sit next to each other instead of on opposite ends of the couch in case the little one got squirrely.
“You gonna put your mama out of her misery?” I say, and Beatrix’s gaze whips to mine. “Sounds like she’s having some sort of panic attack.” I shrug like I couldn’t care either way.
Beatrix gives me her best eye roll, then looks toward the door. “I’m okay,” she shouts, and her tone is begrudging at best. “He didn’t hurt me.”
I settle my gun on a shelf at the far wall and pick up the remote, giving her my best stern-dad look. And Lord knows I’ve had plenty of practice. Gigi was a handful, too, but at least with her, I knew where the bad behavior was coming from.
“Wanna tell me what this is about?” I wag the remote by my ear. “How come you threw the remote across the room?”
“She dropped it,” Baxter says, taking up for his big sister.
I ignore him. “Is this how you treat electronics in this house, like they’re disposable? Like they’re a worthless piece of trash? Are you really that much of a spoiled brat?”
Behind me, the television blares a commercial, an annoying jingle for some kind of sugary cereal. I punch the mute button with a thumb. “Beatrix, I asked you a question. I’m going to need an answer.”
Baxter looks at Beatrix.
Beatrix glares at me. “To which one? That was three questions.”
I almost laugh. Almost. This kid’s too smart for her own good, an added complication I need to figure out how to tame—and fast. Too much planning has gone into this day to let a sassy, spoiled kid ruin everything.
“Hey, mister?” Baxter says, but I don’t look over. I don’t acknowledge him at all. Let this be a lesson to him, too, to not interrupt when other people are talking.
“Do you know how much a remote like this one costs?” I say to Beatrix. “Hundreds and hundreds of dollars. And look here, you cracked the screen. These things don’t just grow on trees, you know.”
She looks away, bored. Bored.
I’d forgotten how impossible nine-year-olds can be. My fingers itch to spank her.
I settle the remote in the bowl on the coffee table and sink onto the edge. “Look, if you and I are going to get through this afternoon in one piece, you’re going to have to do better. To be better. You told me downstairs I could trust you. Now I need you to prove it. And just so we’re clear, throwing remotes around and letting your mama get all riled up isn’t the way to do it. Don’t you hear her over there?”
That breaks through the noise in Beatrix’s immature brain. She stops seething long enough to cock her head, to listen to her mother sobbing across the hall. I see the second she feels regret.