With one last hopeful gaze up the empty street, I steel myself to what happens next. No more waiting on the cops or some heroic neighbor. No more waiting for Cam to save us. Now is my chance. I’m not about to miss.

I fill my lungs with air and courage, then flip the dead bolt.

J A D E

5:50 p.m.

I turn away from the door and I don’t break stride. I take the long way across the foyer tiles, making an arc around the entryway table so I can pick up some speed, gain some momentum. This man is bigger and stronger than me, but if I come on hard and fast, maybe I can take him by surprise.

I’m going to have to surprise him.

At the edge of the foyer, I pivot, turning my torso so the thin slice of steel I wriggled out of my right sleeve is concealed. I feel the weight of the screwdriver in my fist, the hard solidness of the butt my thumb is wrapped around.

One shot. That’s all I get. One risky, raging shot. Better make it count.

“Who’s Ruby?” He leans against the short slice of wall at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for me. The gun dangles in a hand, his other wrapped around my iPhone. He holds it up, wags it in the air by his face. “Who is she, and why does she hate you so much?”

I probably shouldn’t be as insulted as I am. I blink, force myself to shake it off. “Ruby doesn’t hate me.”

He flips the phone around, giving me a flash of what he’s looking at—the long string of message bubbles from my bossy older sister. Ruby likes to dominate every conversation. “Who is she?”

“Ruby is my sister. And she doesn’t hate me.”

“Well, she doesn’t like you very much, that’s for sure.” He drops his head and reads from the screen, raising his voice a good octave. “‘I know you’re so so busy going to book clubs and managing your house staff and all, but stop being such a dick. Last time I checked, I was the single mom with the full-time job, not you, so stop with this princess bullshit and do your part for Dad’s party.’” He looks up with a half grin. “She sounds nice.”

Nobody has ever accused Ruby of being nice, least of all me, but now it’s like all those times when we were kids, when my friends would laugh at her Goodwill fashion finds or her latest Miss Clairol disaster—currently spiky maroon. I have an inexplicable urge to defend my older sister.

As if she knows we’re talking about her, another message dings my phone.

He glances at the screen. “She says you better have ordered the damn decorations. What should I tell her, Jade? Did you order the damn decorations?”