After the initial freeze moment, it’s almost impossible to resist grabbing at someone’s arms and wrists when they’re choking you out. It’s instinctive: You scrabble, you claw, because if you can just get one breath in, you can fight harder.
I can’t let go of the scissors. So I yank them out instead. He screams, his fingers tightening around my throat instead of releasing like I’d hoped. Fuzzy dots pop along my peripheral vision, but I can’t let go. My entire face pulses, the pain and the blood rush mixed together like a runaway roller coaster. The scissors are dripping, my hand shining wet in the fluorescent lights. Now he has a choice.
He pushes me back by the throat, flings me rag-doll style down on the floor, and I hit the tiles with a teeth-clattering thud just as Red Cap comes running into the lobby, bug-eyed and bellowing. The shotgun in his hands whips up, right on me.
“Drop the scissors,” Gray Cap orders, and I know when I’m done, so I do.
“You okay?” Red Cap asks.
“She fucking stabbed me.” His hand clutches his side, and when he pulls it away, it comes back all red.
“Shit, Duane!” Red Cap says, and yes, I’ve finally got a name. His gun swings back to me, but Gray Cap—Duane—grabs the stock.
“No,” he says.
“She stabbed you!” Red Cap protests.
“No,” Duane says.
He’s protecting me—protecting his asset. The glee sparkles inside my chest even as I fight to take a full breath that doesn’t feel like knives against my throat. I’ve got him on the hook.
“You’re fucking crazy,” Red Cap mutters, turning to me. “Hands where I can see them,” he orders.
Duane sags against the deposit slip counter. He stares hard at me, his gasping shallower with each breath. It must hurt like hell. I hope I nicked something important when I went snip snip in there.
“Give me the shotgun,” he tells Red Cap.
He hands it over, so trusting. So dimwitted.
“How’s it going down there?” Duane asks him.
“Almost through. Another twenty minutes, I’d say.”
“Good.” Duane grimaces, pressing his hand harder against his side. He slides down to the ground, leaning against the counter. He’s sweating. My heart leaps. Maybe I did nick something good.
Red Cap swears. “We need to get you a towel.” He looks around. “You, get me something to stop the bleeding.”
“Use your jacket,” I say.
He shakes his head. “Your shirt.” He points to my flannel. “Give it to me.”
Leave it to these jerks to ruin my favorite flannel. I hand it over.
“Should I put her back with the others?” Red Cap asks Duane in a low voice.
Duane shakes his head. “I want her in sight at all times.”
Red Cap looks at me expectantly. “You heard him.” He bends down to help Duane up. The man leans heavily on him, but he’s not beat yet. Far from it. And now he’s got all the weapons. I’m not the only smooth one here.
Red Cap is such a good follower. I wonder what he’d do if someone told him why Duane wanted me around. Or what he was planning on doing to him to get out of here.
I guess I’ll find out soon. It’s time to sow distrust.
And they’ve just given me a front-row seat to do it.
— 39 —
Katie （Age 10）： Sweet, Spirited, Smart （In Three Acts, Reversed）
Act 1: Smart
Before （After）
At first, I think Joseph’s smiley in the way Elijah was—that kind of fake cheeriness that’s all performance and pomp. After all, he owns a slew of car dealerships. He’s a salesman, and a slick one at that. It would make sense.
Every time he looks at me, I try to pick it out in his face, in his eyes. What makes him smile. What makes him frown. How I can mold myself to make him do the first thing, and not the second.
What do you want? I can’t pin it down.
（Later, I’ll tell myself I was stupid. Even later, after a lot of therapy, I’ll know I wasn’t.）
Mom’s too confident after how well conning Elijah went. She’s sailing on the high of two successful jobs in a row, but I don’t know then I can’t trust her when it comes to picking the marks.
（I will question it forever: Did she know? How could she? How could she not?）
Joseph’s on the hook too fast for someone who manipulates for a living; he moves us into his house after just two months of dating, and Mom’s smug about it and I’m so glad I’m not getting terrorized by Jamison anymore that I’ve left Haley and my curled-up fists behind.