T H E I N T E R V I E W
Juanita: In the months since the home invasion, there have been rumors of you stiffing contractors and suppliers—
Cam: [scoffs]
Juanita: —that you created a namesake charity and used those funds to pay off your children’s private school and business liabilities—
Cam: [rolls eyes]
Juanita: —and that what you claimed was the best dry-aged specialty beef was really just meat you purchased in bulk at Costco.
Cam: Would you like the number for my distributor? I’m sure he’d be more than willing to give you a couple of choice sound bites. I still owe him more than fifty grand.
Juanita: The point is, these stories are such a far cry from your reputation as Atlanta’s Steak King that it’s jarring. Would you like to hear a few of the words used to describe you on social media and in the news?
Cam: Not really.
Juanita: Slimy. Shameless. Selfish. Self-centered and self-dealing. A crook like your father. A con artist and a villain. People sure love to hate on Cam Lasky, don’t they?
Cam: What can I say? I’m a despicable guy.
Juanita: Don’t you want to at least try to defend yourself?
Cam: No.
Juanita: Why not? I thought you were here to tell the truth. To look into the camera and set the record straight.
Cam: Do you honestly think after everything that happened that I give the first shit about my reputation? Come on, Juanita. I mean, look at me. See how I’ve paid. So no, I’m not going to try to defend myself because what I did is indefensible. That’s the truth I want people to hear, that I am a sorry, stupid man. That I carry a truckload of guilt and regret and shame. I’m sure your viewers will be beyond thrilled to hear how miserable I am.
Juanita: And Jade?
Cam: What about her?
Juanita: If she were here right now, what would she say? Would she say she still loved you despite what you did, that she forgave you?
Cam: [lengthy pause] Knowing Jade? Sure. But your question should be whether or not I’d believe her.
J A D E
5:32 p.m.
We are back up on the main level, Baxter, the masked man and me, parked in the hallway between the master bedroom and the stairs. He orders me to stand against the wall, and my shoulders brush against the series of family portraits in matching black frames, stern-faced grandfathers and great-great-aunts I’ve never met and history has long forgotten, hanging from brass hooks on the wall. I wonder what they would think of the screwdriver up my sleeve, if they would see it as brave-hearted or reckless.
“What do you think?” he says, flipping off the basement light just inside the door. “Should we leave it open or lock her down there?”
I don’t respond, mostly because he doesn’t seem to expect an answer.
He leans his head into the stairwell and shouts, “Congrats, Beatrix. You’re locked in the dungeon with a million cockroaches,” then slams the door and twists the dead bolts with a snide grin. “If she’s down there, we’ll know it pretty darn soon.”
Baxter lays a clammy hand on my cheek and turns my face to his. “Mommy, Beatrix is not in the basement.” His voice is a shout-whisper, the kind he uses to tell his deepest, darkest secrets—like what I’m getting for Mother’s Day weeks before he and Beatrix present me with a package. Baxter thinks if he whispers something, he’s not spoiling the surprise.
But I wish he’d keep quiet, especially if he happens to know where his sister is hiding.
And even if he doesn’t, every word Baxter utters, every move he makes, puts him square in the spotlight, when it’s so much safer for him to fade into the background. I need him to keep quiet because I want this man to deal with me, not my children.
He stares at Baxter like he’s stuffed with gold. “Do you know where your big sister is?”
The screwdriver is like plutonium, tingling against my skin. If I slid it out of my sleeve right now, I could hold him off of Baxter for a second or two, but I only get one chance. The worst thing would be to waste it.
He steps closer, and Baxter and I lean back, knocking one of the frames from the wall. Great-Great-Grandpa Wally, who played shortstop in the army baseball league. His picture crashes to the floor with a sickening crunch, scattering glass shards across the hallway.
“No.” I shake my head. “Of course Baxter doesn’t know.”
Baxter might know. The kids play hide-and-seek often enough, and he knows all the best spots, places our captor didn’t think to look. Squeezed into the dead space between the laundry hamper and the long dresses in my closet, for example, or curled up inside the covered ottoman in the study. Bax can probably even rattle off a couple I don’t know about.