I don’t respond. I’ve never broken a cheekbone before so I have no idea, and even if I did, I don’t know what the appropriate answer is here. Does he want it to be broken? Better to say nothing at all.

“Where haven’t we looked?”

“Upstairs. It’s the only place left.”

And it’s possible. Maybe she snuck back up while we were searching the basement. Maybe she was going for the upstairs windows because she knows they’re the only ones in the house without sensors, so opening one wouldn’t have tripped the alarm. If she climbed out the playroom window, she could have crawled out onto a patch of roof that’s only gently pitched, the overhang right above the patio. From there, a drop to the terrace tiles below wouldn’t have broken any bones. Probably.

Or no—Beatrix is smarter than that. Maybe she escaped when Tanya dropped by, and the alarm was unarmed. She could have slipped out the door in the master, or the back door by the garage. Either one would have dumped her in the backyard, with only a six-foot fence between her and freedom.

Without thinking, I lean over the back of my chair for a better look out the back window. The ice shifts against my cheek.

“What are you looking at?” He raises the gun, following my gaze out the window, pointing it at empty air. “I don’t see anything. Is somebody out there?”

I turn back, press my lips together and stare at the counter. No telling what he’d do if he thinks Beatrix might have escaped this place. I just pray she made it outside without breaking a bone. I pray she got out and ran like hell.

A chirp, one I don’t recognize, sounds from deep inside the man’s pocket. He digs out a battered Android and swipes at the screen with a thumb.

Frowns.

I study his face for clues, but that damn mask is like a shroud. He stares at the floor, his mouth a straight line, and I have no idea what he’s thinking. Worry? Anger? His expression gives nothing away.

Pride swells in my chest. My daughter has clearly caught this guy off guard. First escaping her bindings and now disappearing without a trace. Brave little Beatrix getting under this man’s skin.

He taps at the screen and presses it to his ear. “Hey...Yeah, I know. We’re looking for her now.”

There’s a long stretch of silence, and my mind whirs, searching for meaning. He’s talking about Beatrix, he must be, which means the person on the other end of the phone knows about the home invasion.

How? And who? A conspirator of some kind?

I stare across the kitchen at his phone, straining to hear, to understand.