With his free hand, he cups the lump that is his ear. “Sorry, but I didn’t quite catch that.” His grin inflates, and he laughs again, an exaggerated sound. “It’s called enunciation. You should try it sometime.”
He stands there for a few empty seconds, letting his stupid joke flutter and die. Christ, how I loathe this man.
His gaze darts around the room, taking everything in, pausing on the lamps, the vase, the lucite bowl. I wonder if he’s doing what I did, cataloging them as possible weapons. When he looks back at me, he’s no longer smiling. “You have a real nice house here. Really nice. Did you do all this yourself, or did you use a decorator?”
Even if I could respond to that, I wouldn’t. There’s no way I’m going to explain myself to this man. How I’ve forgotten my mother’s smile but I remember every detail of the flouncy curtains she spent months cutting and stitching, or the way she would fill the house with flowers and branches she cut from the yard. I’m enough of an armchair psychologist to understand the reasons I’ve spent my life since surrounding myself with pretty things, or why I gave up a career that fed the hole in my soul to spend more time with the kids. This man doesn’t deserve to know that about me.
Plus, if I’m right, if it’s money this guy is after, there’s no good answer to his question. Yes, I used a designer—me. And while I didn’t pay a design fee, I also didn’t pinch pennies. Every inch of this place bears my fingerprint. This house, these carpets and tables and meticulously sourced decor, it’s some of my finest work.
So instead I sit quietly, taking in his eyes, hazel and almond shaped, the way they droop down at the outside corners. They’re frighteningly familiar but in the same way a Labrador retriever is, or a pink-edged tulip. Seen one? Seen them all.
He moves closer, a rabid animal on the prowl.
For all my aggression earlier, now I shrink into the chair, pushing my body backward into the stuffing, but there’s nowhere for me to go. The chair I’m strapped to is already pressed to the wall.
“Hold still.” He bends down, and I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for it—his hot breath against my skin, his gloved hands clamping down around my throat.
This is it. This is where I die.
Something brushes my cheek, and I flinch. The sensation stops, then starts again, a steady pawing on the skin just below my cheekbone.
I crack an eye and there he is, a black shadow looming over me. One hand braced on the back of the chair, the other too close for me to see what it’s doing, what he’s doing. But I feel and hear it, the flicking of his masked finger picking at a corner of the duct tape.
His breath is moist on my face. He smells like soap and fabric softener and something bitter, like the remnants of an afternoon cup of coffee.
He manages to work a corner of the tape loose, peeling a piece of it away from my skin. His hand freezes, his gaze meeting mine head-on. “This is going to hurt. Are you ready?”
I don’t even have a chance to nod before he rips the tape off in one red-hot snap, shucking the top layer of my skin with it. I’m too shocked to scream. My face, my lips, my cheeks and chin. All of it is on fire, a dousing of acid smack in the face.
He straightens, standing above me with the tape dangling from a hand. I glance down, half expecting it to be dripping snot and spit and blood. “Let’s try this again. What was it you were saying?”
“Where are the kids?” My words come out on a gasp, but they’re all I can think about. Where are the kids? Where are they, where are they, where are they?
“The kids are fine. Watching some cartoon in the other room. I put Beatrix in charge of the remote.”
I don’t tell him this is not a good idea. That neither sibling should be in charge of the channel choice. Cam’s system is complicated, the remote cost a fortune, and Beatrix and Baxter can never agree on what to watch. They’re not used to unlimited screen time. The only way this ends is in screaming and tears.
“Please, I want to see them. I need to tell them to be good. I need to tell them—”
That I love them.
The words stick to my throat, eating up all the air and smearing my vision with tears. As hard as I tried to keep them in check downstairs, there’s no stopping them now. They roll down my cheeks, burning the raw skin around my mouth, the salt lighting it on fire. I strain against the ties on my wrists, my ankles, and I sob.
I need to tell my children I love them before it’s too late.
The man backs up a few steps, sinking onto the edge of the bed. “The kids are fine. You can talk to them later. First, you and I are going to make a phone call.”
I’m listening, but my gaze is glued to the door. I suck a breath to yell out to them, then reconsider. They seem calm, for now at least. If they’re tied to a chair like I am, if they’re distracted by the television, calling out to them would only cause panic.
“Jade.” He snaps, three quick flicks of his fingers to get my attention. “Are you listening? I need you to pay attention. We’re going to call your husband, and I want you to tell him he is needed here at home—”
“Fine. But first take me to the kids. I want to see Beatrix and Baxter first.”
He sighs, an aggravated sound that rumbles in his lungs. “I already told you. The kids are fine. And you are not exactly in a position to negotiate.”
“Please.”
“We’re not talking about the kids right now. They’re not important.”
His words ignite a bonfire in my chest, and I lean forward on the chair. “What did you do to them?”
“Jade.” He bares his teeth, talking through them, low and controlled. “This isn’t about the kids. This is about you and me, don’t you get it? I need you to focus on what is happening, right now, right here in this room. On you, making the call to Cam.”
So he knows both our names. It’s an important tidbit I tuck away with all the other pieces I’ve gathered about him.
“I can’t.”
He frowns, two black-brown brows appearing from under the mask. “What do you mean you can’t?”
I wave my hands, strapped by the wrists to the chair. “I need my hands to hold the phone. You’ll have to untie me first.”
Even with both hands free, the lucite bowl would be too much of a stretch, a good five feet of air between it and my fingertips. I could never clear the space fast enough, not with the rest of me attached to this chair. He’d see me lunging from a mile away. He’d smack my arm down, go for his gun, shoot me for even trying.
The man rolls his eyes. “Please, I am not an idiot.” He hikes up on a hip, drags my cell phone from his pants pocket. “I’ll pull up his number, and then we’ll put him on speaker.”
“Let me see the kids first.”
“Jade. May I remind you that you are unarmed and tied to a chair?”
“Please. I’ll call Cam. I’ll say whatever you want me to say to him, but I need to know my children are okay. Let me see them, please.”
He stares at the floor, sucking his bottom lip, thinking. Dragging it out. Making me sweat. Enjoying it. The seconds stretch and dilate.
His gaze whips to mine. “If I do that, if I take you in there and let you have this little reunion you want so badly, how do I know you won’t try something? How do I know you won’t find yourself a weapon, or go for mine?” He glances over his shoulder at the gun, an ominous hunk of black metal on the dresser, as if I need the reminder. The threat is plenty clear, and the pressure in the room changes in an instant. He turns back, giving a slow, sad shake of his head. “I don’t think so. I don’t think I can trust you.”
“I won’t try anything. You can trust me. I swear.”
“Call me a cynic, but I don’t think I can.”
“But I told you about the cameras. I didn’t lie about those.”
He doesn’t respond. He just sits there on the edge of my gu
est room bed and stares me down, his eyes hard, his expression—what I can see of it—ice-cold. I tell myself to shut up, to stand down. There’s no winning this argument. And yet I can’t stop myself from begging one last time.
“Please,” I whisper, cheeks heating, eyes stinging. “Please let me see them.”
I know that I’m being reckless, putting my life, my children’s lives on the line here, but I can’t think of anything but them in the other room, knowing I’m in here strapped to a chair. They must be so terrified. I need to see with my own eyes that they are safe. To comfort them, as much as the sight of them will comfort me.
The man heaves a sigh.
“Fine, you can see them, but not until after.” He stabs the air, one gloved finger pointed to the ceiling. “After you make the call, after I know I can trust you to do what I say. If you do everything I tell you to, I will take you into the playroom for a little visit with the kiddos.”
He’s lying.
The black thought slips into my mind like a monster, ringing loud and clear in my sister Ruby’s ever-cynical voice. There’s no way he’s taking you to your kids, Jade. If you believe him, you’re a bigger fool than I thought. It hits me as a prophecy because she’s right. No matter what I do or say, he’ll never follow through. I know it with gut-punching certainty.
Bend to this man’s will, gain his trust, catch him off guard. That’s the plan. It’s not a great plan, but it’s the only plan I’ve got. I stare up at him, looking him straight in the eye. All I have to do is cooperate for now and wait for the exact right moment.
I swallow and speak the words he wants to hear. “What do you want me to say?”
J A D E
4:07 p.m.
Cam picks up on the second ring, his voice bleating from the speaker of my iPhone.
“Yo, babe, I was just thinking. With Bolling Way in ashes, why don’t we get away? Just you and me and a sunny Caribbean island. What’s the one with the pink sand again? I’ve always wanted to see that.”
“Cam.”
“There’s nothing I can do here anyway. Flavio can handle things with the insurance, and honestly, I could use a break. Everything was already so nutty, and now this fire. If I don’t take a minute to step away from this craziness, I’m going to crash and burn.”
His voice is tinny, ringing with Bluetooth and high-speed wind. I picture him flying down Peachtree in his truck, clueless I’m calling for what is essentially a ransom call. If only he would stop talking long enough for me to tell him.
“Cam.”
He yammers on—about the fire, a former sous-chef leaning out of an upstairs window, karma.
“Omigod, would you shut up?” This time I scream into the phone. I scream so hard the back of my throat catches fire.
He stops midsentence.
“Stop talking and listen to me, okay? This is an emergency.”
There’s a long, empty beat of airy silence. “Is this about that skeevy guy again, because—”
“No, but I need you to listen carefully.” I stare at my husband’s name on my iPhone screen, and I want to scream. I want to cry. I don’t want to be making this call. “There’s a man here, at the house. He says that—”
“A man. What man? Who?”
If only I knew. I’ve spent the past hour asking myself the same question, flipping through mental headshots of Cam’s salaried staff, the chefs and general managers I’ve met throughout the years, but there were a lot and the restaurant business is notoriously fluid. Talent bounces around, floating from restaurant to restaurant based on the latest newspaper reviews and Glassdoor rankings.
“Cam, listen to me.” My voice is shaky and raw, the words scratching in my throat like twine. “This man has a gun, and he says he will kill me if—”
“A gun, are you serious? Babe. If this is a joke, it’s not funny.”
“It’s not a joke. This man says he will shoot me and the kids unless you do exactly as he says. I’m only allowed to tell you this once. Are you ready?” I glance up at the man, and he nods his approval.
“Hell no, I’m not ready. Where are the Bees?”
Beatrix and Baxter. Instant tears at the affectionate term, said in such a desperate tone, used in such a blood-chilling context.
I gulp hard breaths, staring at the man’s knock-off Adidas sneakers. Cam is a solver. He spends all day every day tearing down roadblocks and putting out fires. But he’s not staring down the barrel of a gun, or attached to a forty-pound chair. He still thinks he can turn this thing around.
“The kids are in the playroom. Watching TV.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m in the guest room.” I squeeze my eyes tight, breathe through a slice of white-hot panic. “He tied me to the blue chair.”
“You’re tied to a chair. Are you for real right now? Because you’re scaring me.”
I’m scaring me, too. Hearing the words roll off my tongue has me electric with fear, but I can tell Cam isn’t there yet. It’s not that he doesn’t believe me, it’s just that he’s still processing.
“He has a gun, Cam. He says he wants money.”
“Jesus.” Tires screech, and a car honks in the background. “Hold tight. I’m on the way.”
“Cam, no. If you come without the money, he’ll kill us. If you call the police, he’ll kill us. Do you understand? You can’t call the police. He says if you do, if he sees somebody sneaking through the yard or hears so much as a siren in the distance—” I don’t think I can say the terrible words out loud, but I know I have to “—he says he’ll kill the kids first and make me watch. He says he’ll give me plenty of time to see it, and then he’ll kill me, too.”
“Let me talk to the kids. I want to talk to them.”
Before we made this call, before the man pulled up Cam’s contact card on my phone and hit the number for his cell, the parameters were clearly defined. This is one of the scenarios we talked about. If Cam asks to talk to the children, I am to tell him no.
I look at the man now, and he shakes his head.
“You can’t. They’re in the playroom.”
I stare at the phone as I say it, trying to ignore the gun in his other hand, the barrel pointed at my forehead. I’m praying the last word will spark something in Cam’s mind. A memory. A recollection of the three nanny cams, concealed in strategic spots around the playroom. The same ones he teased me for installing, the ones he claims were an unnecessary expense seeing as I was never going to hire a nanny.
“Are they... Are the Bees okay?”
“For now.” Another answer the man and I rehearsed, one that’s meant to put the fear of God in Cam.
The kids’ earlier bickering from the back seat of my car rings once again through my head, wrapping like barbed wire around my heart. I will never fuss at them again. I will never lose patience when they want another hug, another story, another few minutes of my attention when I’ve finally found a moment alone.
I squeeze my eyes shut but it doesn’t staunch the tears. “But, Cam, you have to do exactly as I say.”
“Tell me. I’m ready.”
“I need you to go to the bank and withdraw—it’s a specific number. Maybe you should write it down.”
“I’m ready,” Cam says without missing a beat, and I don’t push the issue. This is a man who can’t remember to pack socks or take out the trash, but he never forgets a recipe, a measurement, a budget line. Cam knows exactly how many packs of butter he has in the cooler at any given moment. He knows the market price of a twenty-eight-day aged filet mignon down to the cent. He doesn’t need to write the number down.
“I need you to get $734,296 in cash and bring it to the house. Do not call the police. Do not tell anyone what you need the money for. Just get it and bring it home. When you get here with the money, he’ll let us go.”
“Who is he?
”
“I don’t know. He hasn’t told me his name.”
“Is it...is it him?” Cam doesn’t have to say who he’s referring to. The pock-skinned, man-bunned man.
“No. At least I don’t think so.”
“Who, then? What does he look like?”
The man touches the side of the gun to his temple, a not-so-subtle indication to mention the mask. Before the call, he told me I was allowed to, but only if Cam asked.
“I don’t know. He’s wearing a mask.”
The man nods, gives me a close-lipped smile. Good dog.
“It sounds like I’m on speaker. Is he listening? He’s standing right there, isn’t he?”
Finally, Cam is asking the right questions, gathering up the facts with his businessman’s mind. But before this call connected, the man was very specific about what I was allowed to say. The instructions, that I’m separated from the kids, that we’re fine for now but that Cam needs to hurry—those were all parts of the script. Everything else is on a case-by-case basis.
I look at him for guidance, and he gives a slow shake of his head. Panic heats the space behind my breastbone because I don’t know what that means. Am I supposed to lie and say he’s not listening? To not answer the question?
Cam reads the truth behind my silence. “Mister, I don’t know who you are, but I want you to be assured that I will get you the money. I’ll get whatever you want. But I’m begging you, please don’t hurt my family.”
I wait for the man’s response, but he stares at the phone in his hand as the silence stretches. He’s thinking, I guess, considering how to answer—if to answer. He looks at me, and his lips move, pink and exaggerated like a silent film star.
Police.
I frown, not understanding until his gaze flits to the phone.
“Did you hear the part about the police, Cam? You can’t call them. He said no law enforcement of any kind. He’ll kill us if you call them.”
My Darling Husband Page 8