“What’s going on here?”

“I was hoping this might be a friend of yours,” Grandma Rose said. “Some kind of misunderstanding?”

“No,” Ben said. “What do you want?” he asked the gunman.

“Where’s the boy?”

“He’s not here,” Grandma Rose said.

“Shut up,” the gunman said. “I didn’t ask you. Where’s the boy?”

“He’s not here,” said Ben calmly.

There was a noise from upstairs. The gunman’s gaze lifted. “You sure you don’t know where he is?” he asked again.

Ben’s face was a question mark.

“Then I guess you’re no good to me,” he said. Three silent rounds flew from the silenced barrel of his gun, each lodging directly in Ben’s chest.

Grandma Rose began to tremble as his body tumbled to the ground. There was blood everywhere. “Please, please, please—”

A rope came out of the gunman’s pocket. “Grab a chair,” he said.

Not knowing what else to do, she took a chair from the dining room and brought it back to the gunman. Her mind raced. Where was the phone? Was it in the kitchen? When was April coming home? She couldn’t remember anything.

“Sit down,” said the gunman.

Grandma Rose hesitated. “Why are you doing this?” she asked, wondering if she could reason with him. “If you want money, I’ll give you everything we have.”

The gunman pushed her into the chair. “I don’t want your money,” he said.

Grandma Rose closed her eyes. She felt the rope twist around her arms, her legs, her torso, her neck. She listened to the short, shallow breathing of the gunman, his face only inches away. She sensed his adrenaline rise to dangerous levels. One wrong move and he would kill her, just like he had killed Ben.

“Look at me,” said the gunman.

She opened her eyes. He held the gun in one hand, a dirty rag in the other.

“Is the boy upstairs?” he asked. “I thought I heard something up there.”

“No. He’s not here,” she said. “Went to a friend’s house.”

He aimed the gun at her forehead. “I’ve been watching the house since you brought him home. Now, is he upstairs or not?”

“You wouldn’t have seen him go. He left through the back door.” The tip of the pistol pressed into the flesh of her cheek. It was still hot. She clenched her teeth.

The phone rang. Once. Twice.

“Where’s the phone?” the gunman asked.

“I don’t know. It’s cordless.”

The ringing stopped after three rings.

“Just a wrong number,” Grandma Rose said. “Happens all the time.”

The gunman raised his head, his attention caught by the sounds coming from upstairs: the metallic purr of the television, the pitter-patter of small feet on the hardwood floors. “Or someone upstairs just answered the call,” he said, smiling.

“Hide, Charlie!” Grandma Rose shouted. Her courage cracked, and the tears streamed down her face.