6:57 p.m.
I’m so busy watching Sebastian that I don’t notice it at first.
The way Beatrix’s arm reached across the armrest and into my chair just now, like her wrist wasn’t connected to the leather. The object she pressed in my hand.
Long. Hard. Warm from body heat.
Automatically, I close my fingers around it, concealing the thing in a fist.
But I don’t look. And I don’t consider how it could be possible. Not yet.
I’m too distracted by Sebastian’s shouting into the wall speaker, a long tirade about how Cam better get here and get here in a hurry. How he shouldn’t listen to me.
Three minutes until seven, the blink of an eye and an endless eternity at the same time. Sebastian is furious, this situation so volatile. Anything can happen in three minutes.
And then realization hits.
The warm, hard, sticky thing in my palm.
I unfurl my fingers just enough to peek inside.
It’s Cam’s pocketknife, the one he’s had since college, a scratched and beat-up thing that once belonged to his grandfather. Cam keeps it more for sentimental value than for its usefulness, storing it under a stack of wrinkled business cards in an antique box in his study. As far as I know, he’s never showed it to the kids.
But Beatrix knew where to look.
Not only that.
In the middle of a life-or-death emergency, when she had only a few seconds to scout out a hiding place, Beatrix went for a weapon. She found the pocketknife in Cam’s hiding place. This is the reason we don’t have a gun.
My smart girl kept her wits about her. While the three of us were downstairs searching the basement, Beatrix was in Cam’s study, gathering weapons and making signs. She’s my four-foot, curly-haired, levelheaded hero.
I close my fingers around the knife and twist around on my chair.
Beatrix’s seat is empty. She stands in front of it, bare toes digging into the carpet. Her hands hang loose by her sides, free from their bindings.
Behind her, the duct tape lies wrinkled and deflated on the leather. Sawed completely through, four messy slices in the metallic silver, by the pocketknife in my hand. It must have taken her forever, and all that time I didn’t see. None of us heard a sound.
Especially not Sebastian, watching from the other side of the coffee table. He has both hands raised, fingers spread wide, palms pushing against the air. “Don’t even think about it.”
My gaze returns to Beatrix’s hands, but I only see one of them. Her left hand, hanging empty by her side. The other is concealed by her body.
And yet I already know what’s in it.
I see it from Sebastian’s suddenly blanched skin, the way his eyes go twitchy. I see it in the set of Beatrix’s mouth, her rod-straight back and trembling shoulders. From the way my mind stops screaming long enough to hear what’s happening outside, the soft but steady sound, whistling like a distant wind.
I know what’s in Beatrix’s hand long before she lifts her arms and I see the gun. She grips it in two white-knuckled hands.
And that whistling outside? It’s not wind.
It’s sirens.
Sebastian’s earlier words echo through my brain: At the first sign of sirens, the bullets start flying. First the kids, then you.
And now it’s Beatrix holding the gun, her finger curled around the trigger.
Sebastian doesn’t move.
The moment slips into crystalline focus.
“Move back,” Beatrix says. “Get up against the wall. Do it.”
She’s like a stick-figure drawing of someone holding a gun, all sharp angles and straight lines, her arms extended from her body in a perfect triangle. It’s the amateur stance of someone who learned her gun skills from comic books and cartoons, who’s never held a gun, never even had an interest in a toy one.
My chest swells with terror, and I shift to the other side of the chair. “Beatrix, sweetie, give me the gun.”
She shakes her head, hard and sharp, a rapid back-and-forth that shivers her curls. “I mean it, mister. Back up.” Her muscles are taut, her finger twitching where it’s bent over the trigger.
Sebastian takes a tiny backward step. “Be careful with that thing. This isn’t some plaything, you know, that gun is deadly. One wrong move and you could shoot yourself in the foot or worse. What if you shoot your mama?”
“I’m not aiming at my mom. I’m aiming at you.”
“Come on, kid. You really don’t want to do this.”
“Yes, I do. I really, really want to shoot you.” Beatrix’s voice breaks on the word shoot, and she thrusts the gun for emphasis. “Now move back. I mean it. Go!”
Sebastian takes another ministep. “So that’s it, then, you’re going to shoot me. Better make it good. Better not miss.”
Beatrix closes one eye. Her muscles never so much as quiver when she holds the violin, but now her aim is all over the place. She’s close enough, though, that even a wide shot could be deadly. The femur, a collarbone, a direct hit to the head.
I hold out a trembling hand. “Beatrix, I mean it. Give me the gun.”
Another shake of the head. “Not until he moves back. He’s still too close. Move more.”
“Or maybe you should just wait until the cops get here. Let them handle things.” Sebastian tips his head to the window, to the sound of sirens. The wailing feels like a hallucination, like if I cover my ears they’ll disappear, fading away into silence. I picture police cars hurtling through the streets behind our house, colorful lights cutting through the dusk and rain like swirling lanterns. In another few minutes, they’ll be squealing up the drive.
“Stop talking. And move back more.” Beatrix enunciates each word slowly, deliberately. “Please don’t make me say it again.”
It’s a phrase I say to the kids often, and in exactly that same tone, and my words coming out of my daughter’s mouth wrap around my heart and squeeze. It never works on them, either.
Sebastian’s soles stay planted to the floor.
I slide onto my knees on the carpet. I’m afraid any sudden movement will set Beatrix off. Slowly, steadily, I stretch my hand farther.
“He’s right, baby. You’re so brave, but let me handle this, okay? Give Mommy the gun.”
Except for two candy-red spots high on her cheeks, Beatrix’s face is shockingly pale, white and translucent like melted candle wax, like a body dredged from the depths. The effect is terrifying, especially when coupled with her voice, high with icy anger.
“No. Not until he gets back to the wall. All the way. Mommy, make him move.”
The sirens are getting steadier now, undulating waves through the air on the back side of the house, which means they’ve made the turn into the neighborhood.
“Sweetie, give me the gun.”
Beatrix’s body is wound tight, her shoulder muscles bunched under her pink polka-dot shirt.
Sebastian’s gaze flicks to mine, his eyes going wide, like do something. “Put the gun down, missy.”
“I’m not your missy.”
I move on my knees, edging closer to curl my hand around Beatrix’s, take control of the gun and shoot Sebastian in the head. And just to be sure, I’ll shoot him in the heart, too. Bang bang. Dead.
And then I will carry this gun out the door and across the road and point it at Tanya until she gives me back my son. I will tear her limbs from her body if I have to.
Sebastian points a gloved finger to the ceiling. “Hear that? They’ll be here any minute.”
I keep my eyes on Sebastian, the gun a black blur in my periphery. “It’s true, sweetie. The police are on their way. They’re coming to save us. Let them handle this, please. Give the gun to me.”
I reach for the gun, at the same time Beatrix steps to the side, and my hand swipes air. I don’t try again because I know that expression, the way her eyes and jaw are locked down tight. There’s no way she’s putting that weapon down, not even for me. Not even for the police.
Beatrix’s finger tightens around the trigger.
Sebastian’s gaze zeroes in on the gun. “Hey, watch it there. That gun has a heavy recoil. You might want to loosen up on that trigger.”
Beatrix lifts the gun higher, aiming it at Sebastian’s chest.
Dead center.
“Okay, fine, you got me, but don’t do anything you’re going to regret. Once you pull that trigger, there’s no going back. You can’t take back a bullet.”
My daughter squeezes her eyes and the trigger.