I think about what I will do if the man comes after Tanya, how I can protect any of us with Baxter hanging from my hip. I feel the body-warmed metal of the screwdriver against the skin of my arm, painfully conscious that I’ve now got three people to worry about, three innocent bystanders to protect instead of just my two children. I need to come up with a way to reframe this battle and move it to a safer place—somewhere without the risk of collateral damage.

“Sorry, Tanya. I must be confused. I’ve just got so much on my mind, I guess I forgot.”

Tanya doesn’t seem the least bit offended. “No worries, sugar—for a minute there I was worried you were dipping into the afternoon sherry. Speaking of, did you hear? Suzanne Foster down the block just checked herself into rehab. Though I suppose nobody who’s ever been to one of her book clubs would be the least bit surprised. That woman’s liver must be big as Brazil.”

Baxter wriggles to be let down, and I slide him down my leg. We didn’t exactly have time to go over the rules here, but I’m guessing the man aiming a gun at my temple wants us to stay in his sights. As soon as his feet hit the floor, Baxter takes off toward the back of the house, to the TV room and the chest full of toys. I watch him go, bracing for some kind of payback. At least he’s out of shooting range.

“Did something break?”

I follow Tanya’s gaze to the floor behind me, where shards of glass sparkle like fallen snow on the hardwood.

“Oh, that,” I say, letting my gaze drift over the man. He’s pressed to the wall, his back to the living room, but all I see is his gun, mere feet away from my head. It’s like staring down a rabid animal. He lifts a gloved finger up to his lips. Shh.

I turn back to Tanya. “It was a picture. I accidentally bumped it off the wall.”

“Oh, well, better clean it up quick, then. If your kids are anything like mine, they don’t know where their shoes are half the time. If one of them runs through that mess, you’ll be digging glass out of their feet till Christmas.”

My lungs swell with breath, and the words come out before I can stop them. “Can I get you something to drink?”

Light. Casual. An Oscar-worthy performance, and it’s the polite thing to do, though I don’t have time to think through a game plan, and I definitely don’t want to consider the consequences. In my periphery, the man moves closer, the muzzle almost to the edge of the wall. The gesture is a warning, a promise of coming punishment.