My Darling Husband

by Kimberly Belle

  He drops his head back and howls at the ceiling: “Beatriiiiiiiix.” All hard consonants and dragged-out vowels, fueled by fury. If Cam or I called for Beatrix that way, she’d pee her pants.

  I stare with wide eyes at the man, the way his fingers are creeping across the marble toward the gun. Tension buzzes in the air like static, and I hold my breath, but I don’t dare look away.

  I listen for movement, the patter of footsteps or the creak of a door, but there’s nothing. No sounds, other than cool air blowing through the vents.

  “Where is she?”

  I drop the towel filled with ice in the sink. Screw this guy. Screw his apology ice pack.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Jade. I am not joking here. We’re running out of time.” He slides the gun from the counter, one smooth move from the marble to his glove to my face. There’s a good ten feet between the bullet and my skull and the space is dwindling.

  Time for what?

  I stare down the muzzle of the gun, and my chest swells and stills.

  He aims at a spot directly between my eyes. “Let’s try this again. Where. Is. Beatrix?”

  I hold up both hands—a sign of defeat, a useless shield—and squeeze my eyes tight. “I don’t know. I swear I don’t. Please don’t shoot.”

  Something cool presses against my forehead, the hard metal pressing into my skin.

  “Beatrix!” His shout is a loud roar.

  I flinch hard enough to fall off my chair. The movement and the terror are messing with my equilibrium, and the world turns upside down. I open my eyes, just a slit, enough to catch my balance. The gun is still there, pressed against my forehead, but the man has his head turned, screaming over his shoulder into the living room and beyond.

  “You get your sneaky little butt out here right now, missy, otherwise I’m putting a bullet in your mother’s skull. You have ten seconds to decide, not a second more, so you better get here fast.”

  He pauses to listen, but there’s nothing but dead air and the sound of light panting—mine.

  “Ten...nine...eight.”

  I think of Baxter across the street, how I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. I think of Beatrix having to live with the knowledge she got her mother killed. I think of Cam, and the older version of him I’ll never get to see.

  Please, God, please let Beatrix be miles and miles away by now.

  The pressure on my forehead releases, leaving behind a dull, empty throbbing. I open my eyes and he’s walking away, that angry gash already drying up on his back. He stops at the doorway to the living room and shouts into the house.

  “Seven...six...five... Four more and then Mommy’s dead.”

  Deep breaths. In. Out. Deep breaths.

  “Four...three...”

  Tears tap my lap, evaporating into the dry-fit fabric on my leggings. I stare at the man’s back, a tall shadow in the doorway to the living room, and sweat drips down my spine. I consider calling out to Beatrix—Don’t take the bait. Stay hidden. I love you—but the words jam in my throat. I swallow a lump, thick and soggy like a wet towel.

  “Two...say goodbye to your mom forever...”

  I squeeze my eyes, and my thoughts wander, disconnected and drifting along all the unfinished items on my to-do list. The kids’ school projects, in a box downstairs. Thousands of their pictures, forever lost on my phone. The career I’ll never get to pick back up, all the design jobs I’ll never get to do. That stupid argument with my sister, the dumb decorations gathering dust downstairs. I remember our last screaming match, unchangeable history, every ugly word.

  “Last chance, kiddo.”

  Oh God, Cam. I’m sorry.

  I couldn’t save them.

  The man hauls a breath for the final count, then—

  “WAIT.”

  It comes from somewhere deep in the house, a high and panicked shout muffled by wood and stone and drywall. A floorboard creaks above my head.

  “Wait. Don’t shoot. I’m coming.”

  I want to scream and wail and weep—with relief, with dread. Beatrix didn’t crawl out an upstairs window. She didn’t run to a neighbor’s house. There’s no sniper outside the windows. Nobody’s coming to save us but Cam.

  The man glances over his shoulder at me, his teeth flashing. “Lucky you. Looks like you get to live a little while longer.”

  Forty minutes, according to the microwave clock. Forty minutes for Cam to get here with the money.

  And then what? What happens then?

  The stairs creak with a body’s weight, Beatrix emerging from wherever she’s been, giving herself up to save me. The weight of her sacrifice steals my breath, and I make a silent vow that it won’t be in vain. My daughter will live to see tomorrow even if I don’t.

  All I need to do is keep her alive for another forty minutes.

  S E B A S T I A N

  6:20 p.m.

  I see that ridiculous hair first, tight ringlets peeking out from the wall by the stairs, and the gun goes hot in my hand. My finger snakes around the trigger, and I’m squeezing down before I can stop myself. The hammer cocks back, a heartbeat away from firing.

  “Get your butt down here.” My words are a snarl through clenched teeth, and hell yeah, it’s meant to scare the bejesus out of her. If this girl screwed everything up, I swear I’m going to strangle her.

  “Leave her alone,” Jade says from her spot at the bar. Her ass is still parked on the stool, but the rest of her looks ready to spring. Both hands are planted on the marble, and she leans into it hard, like she’s about to pole-vault over it. Like she wants to jump into the line of fire.

  I aim the Beretta at her head. “Don’t move. The second your feet touch the floor, I won’t think twice. I will take you down, and I’m a good shot so don’t even try.”

  Her cheek is a mess, swollen and stained purple. Fractured, I’m guessing, and a twinge of regret hits me between the ribs before the pain in my back wipes it clean. I’ve never hit a woman before, and swear to God, I didn’t want to hit Jade. I definitely didn’t mean to hit her that hard, but you try facing a screwdriver coming for your jugular and see how you respond. I did what I had to do.

  And what I have to do now is deal with Beatrix.

  She slinks across the living room floor in her bare feet—and the kid was smart to lose her sneakers. Easier to control how your feet land when you’re not wearing any, and even smarter to have made sure they were hidden so as not to drop us any clues. Maybe that’s the problem here, that this kid is too damn smart.

  “Want to tell me how you got out of the duct tape?”

  Beatrix shakes her head, and the movement squeezes off a tear—and judging by her red eyes and wet cheeks it’s not the first. “Not really.”

  “I was doing you a favor up there, so you know. I put on the TV. I made sure you were comfortable. I even offered you a snack that you flat out refused. I mean, I don’t know what else I could have done to make this experience any easier for you and your brother. Do you?”

  Her glaze flits away and her fingers go to town, tapping out a silent rhythm on her thigh.

  “What the hell is that?” I gesture at her dancing hand with my chin. “Do you have a tic or something?”

  Her fingers freeze, and she crosses her arms, pressing both palms in her armpits. “It’s notes.”

  “Notes to what?”

  “Bach’s B minor partita. You wouldn’t understand. It’s classical.”

  Partita—the same term Jade used downstairs. But it’s Beatrix’s other words I’m focused on. The ones that insinuated I’m stupid.

  “Just because I don’t listen to classical music doesn’t mean I don’t know what a partita is. Of course I know what a partita is. You look like the flute type.”

  She makes a face like I just offered her a bowl of shit soup. “The pa
rtita for flute is in A minor, not B. I play the violin.”

  That expression, her snide tone. It’s a reaction I’ve seen a million times, as familiar as a favorite old coat. It’s exactly how Gigi would have responded at that age.

  The nostalgia lasts only a second or two before dissolving into something sharp and hot. I breathe through it, a series of quick and shallow breaths.

  “Stop looking at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like I don’t have a gun aimed at your head. Like you have a death wish.”

  The little shit actually rolls her eyes, and this kid. This spunky little kid. From the second we walked in the house, she’s been a thorn in my side. Staring me down. Daring me to punish her.

  “I’m serious, kid. Look away, or this gun is the last thing you’ll see.”

  “Beatrix, for God’s sake, stop,” Jade says, and to her credit, she hasn’t moved. But she’s put some space between her chair and the bar and positioned herself at the edge of the seat.

  But it does the trick. Beatrix swings her gaze to her mom. “What.”

  Not a question, and even though she clearly doesn’t expect an answer, I give her one. “Don’t be a hero.” I flick the gun back and forth between the two. “Don’t either of you do anything you’ll regret.”

  I’m talking to both of them, but my words are especially for Jade, whose expression is wild. Wide eyes glistening with a combination of fury and horror. Second cheek flushing purple to match the first. Her life or Beatrix’s? I can tell she’s already made the choice.

  By now Beatrix is close enough for me to grab her by the shirt. One good tug and I’ve dragged her into the kitchen.

  “That was a really stupid trick you pulled. Really reckless. You almost got your mother killed. You know that, right? She almost got a bullet in her brain because of you. Now say you’re sorry.”

  I wait for some kind of reaction, a flicker of regret or a mumbled apology, but the kid gives me nothing. She doesn’t even blink.

  A fire sparks in my chest, and I clamp on to her shoulders and give her a mighty shake. A bone-rattling, skin-quaking, teeth-jangling shake. I’m still fisting the gun, and the weapon presses hard into her shoulder, against bone, and it’s got to hurt. She flops around like a bobblehead, but I can’t pick up the slightest trace of regret in her eyes. No pain, either, not even a twitch.

  Only hatred.

  Yeah, kid. Sure as shit is the feeling mutual.

  “STOP,” Jade screams, springing off her chair, and she’s fast, I’ll give her that. She’s lunged around the bar and into the kitchen before I can let go of her kid, planting herself directly behind me. “Stop! Take your hands off her!”

  I let the kid go because one more shake and Jade would have jumped on my back, and beyond the fact that it’s still on fire from the screwdriver, I need to defuse the situation. I need to get everybody back upstairs and into the theater. Today is too important. I don’t have time for this.

  I shove Beatrix in her mama’s direction, and now, finally, she makes a sound, a long, high squeal of relief. Jade sweeps Beatrix into her arms, murmuring words I can’t quite hear, squeezing her against her chest and patting down her hair. I give them five seconds. This little reunion would almost be touching if we weren’t running so short on time.

  “Okay. So here’s how it’s gonna go. The three of us are going to march our asses back upstairs, where you—” I flick the gun at the girl’s head “—get yours strapped to a chair. And don’t expect any softballs from me this time. No cartoons. No reclining the seats until they’re the perfect angle. And no lightening up on the tape because it smelled weird or it yanked on your skin. Do you understand what I’m telling you here? There’ll be no getting loose this time. Now let’s go.”

  I round them up with the Beretta, and order them to walk up the stairs.

  Jade clutches her daughter by her shoulders, and she keeps her head high as she leads her across the living room. I don’t miss the look of longing she casts as she passes the front door, searching for someone—maybe Baxter—out on the street, praying for a happy accident or kismet, a person down there, a savior, who will look up at just the right moment. I keep the gun trained on her back and watch her for a reaction. But either there’s nobody out there or she’s a damn fine actress.

  And I already know that she’s not.

  “Stop,” I say when she reaches the stairs, then peer around the corner. I catch the tail end of a car whizzing by, but otherwise the street is empty. I jog across the living room floor.

  Upstairs in the playroom, I flip off the TV, dumping the remote in a bowl on the table. “Back on the chair, missy.”

  Four attached recliners in a curved row, covered in a buttery brown leather I mangled when I ripped the tape off Baxter. Beatrix’s getup is still intact, long lengths of tape a little looser in the middle, where she somehow managed to wriggle out.

  This time, they’re going tighter. This time, I’ll make sure she’s good and anchored down.

  Beatrix doesn’t move.

  “Didn’t you hear me? I said, back on a chair.”

  She sinks into the one behind her, one of the middle ones.

  “Not that one.” I gesture with the Beretta to the opposite end of the couch. “I want you down there on the other end. As far away as possible from the door.”

  She looks to her mother for confirmation, for help.

  “But why?” Jade’s gaze flits between me and her daughter. “This is the one she usually sits in. What does it matter?”

  “It matters because I said so. Now move.”

  Still Beatrix doesn’t budge. And Jade just stands there clutching her daughter’s hand, watching me with bloodshot eyes above a shattered cheekbone. “Why are you doing this?”

  “You know why. You’re the one who gave Cam his marching orders, remember? Though I will say, it’s taking him longer than I expected. If he doesn’t get that money over here in, oh—” I glance at my wrist, where an ancient Timex ticks away the seconds under two layers of black fabric “—exactly thirty-seven minutes, none of you are going to like what happens next.”

  She blanches, brown hair floating around her face, and even with that cheek, she really is beautiful. And that stunt with the screwdriver downstairs, the way she’s constantly throwing herself in front of her kids. She’s a real daredevil, this one. I can see why Cam chose her.

  I imagine him racing around town in that stupid truck of his, those ridiculous rims spinning on jacked-up, oversize tires. I hope he’s losing his mind with worry and desperation. I hope each second that ticks by pierces him like a bullet in the gut, that he’s realizing, this very second, the hopelessness of his mission. I wish I could be there for when the realization hits him—he can’t save the people he loves most in this world—when the guilt and desperation and helplessness sit on his chest with the weight of an elephant. I sure would enjoy seeing that.

  “What I mean is, why us? Out of all the houses on the street, why ours? And why do you need such a specific amount? Why by seven? I don’t understand.”

  Finally. Three hours into this train wreck, and Jade is finally asking all the right questions. I wonder what took her so long. Did she just now work up the gumption? Did she finally piece together that nothing about today is random? I’m guessing a lot came from the clues she overheard in the kitchen, but still. I was expecting these questions hours ago.

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”

  “But you must have some kind of theory, or maybe a couple, and I want to know what they are. Why do you think I chose this happy little home? What do you think is happening here?”

  “I think you’re a parent.” She looks as surprised as I am that she said those words out loud, then her expression doubles down. “Or maybe not a parent, but I think the
re’s someone who relies on you to care for them, someone you love very much.”

  “Because of the phone call?”

  Jade nods.

  I think back through the conversation downstairs, but I was careful to be vague. I didn’t say a word that could lead back to Gigi. I’m positive I didn’t mention her by name.

  “I didn’t say anything about a kid.”

  “No, but you called somebody pumpkin, and you seemed...”

  “What?”

  She shrugs. “Worried.”

  I shake my head. “Stop trying to change the subject. This has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with Cam.”

  With him having to live out the rest of his miserable days with what he’s done. With knowing that whatever happens today, however this ends, it’s all his fault. With knowing he was helpless to prevent tragedy.

  “What, did he fire you once upon a time? Did he run you out of business? Is this about revenge?”

  “This isn’t about revenge,” I say, though that’s not totally true. It’s in part about revenge, but mostly it’s about getting what I deserve. The money Cam cheated me out of two years ago plus interest, the resulting hole in my income that meant I lost my home and my savings and health care, all the medical treatments that I couldn’t pay as a result. For the way Gigi got weaker, scrawnier, sicker. Just thinking about it burns like the skin on my back, where Jade split me open like a hog. “This is about justice. About me getting what I deserve. What I am owed.”

  “Owed to you by Cam.”

  By Cam, by God, by the universe. Take your pick. Nothing about these past two years has felt fair. I’m not leaving here today without taking back what’s rightfully mine.

  And taking down Cam’s family is a nice bonus.

  Jade reads my silence as an affirmative. “If you tell me what Cam did, I can help put things right. Cam’s not a bad guy. He listens to me.”

  Her words are like kerosene on the fire roaring in my belly.

  First, that her husband is not a bad guy, which means she’s either ignorant or willfully blind. Cam is selfish and greedy and will mow down anybody in his way. He is a bad guy. He’s a guy who looks out only for himself.