Juanita: The point is, these stories are such a far cry from your reputation as Atlanta’s Steak King that it’s jarring. Would you like to hear a few of the words used to describe you on social media and in the news?

Cam: Not really.

Juanita: Slimy. Shameless. Selfish. Self-centered and self-dealing. A crook like your father. A con artist and a villain. People sure love to hate on Cam Lasky, don’t they?

Cam: What can I say? I’m a despicable guy.

Juanita: Don’t you want to at least try to defend yourself?

Cam: No.

Juanita: Why not? I thought you were here to tell the truth. To look into the camera and set the record straight.

Cam: Do you honestly think after everything that happened that I give the first shit about my reputation? Come on, Juanita. I mean, look at me. See how I’ve paid. So no, I’m not going to try to defend myself because what I did is indefensible. That’s the truth I want people to hear, that I am a sorry, stupid man. That I carry a truckload of guilt and regret and shame. I’m sure your viewers will be beyond thrilled to hear how miserable I am.

Juanita: And Jade?

Cam: What about her?

Juanita: If she were here right now, what would she say? Would she say she still loved you despite what you did, that she forgave you?

Cam: [lengthy pause] Knowing Jade? Sure. But your question should be whether or not I’d believe her.

J A D E

5:32 p.m.

We are back up on the main level, Baxter, the masked man and me, parked in the hallway between the master bedroom and the stairs. He orders me to stand against the wall, and my shoulders brush against the series of family portraits in matching black frames, stern-faced grandfathers and great-great-aunts I’ve never met and history has long forgotten, hanging from brass hooks on the wall. I wonder what they would think of the screwdriver up my sleeve, if they would see it as brave-hearted or reckless.

“What do you think?” he says, flipping off the basement light just inside the door. “Should we leave it open or lock her down there?”

I don’t respond, mostly because he doesn’t seem to expect an answer.

He leans his head into the stairwell and shouts, “Congrats, Beatrix. You’re locked in the dungeon with a million cockroaches,” then slams the door and twists the dead bolts with a snide grin. “If she’s down there, we’ll know it pretty darn soon.”