Curled into a ball in some cabinet, wedged between the boxes downstairs, pressed flat between a piece of furniture and a wall. Or maybe sitting on a chair at a neighbor’s house, a cup of something hot and sweet in her hands and a blanket draped over her shoulders, recounting her harrowing tale to the police so a sniper can train their gun through a window and shoot this masked-man in his face. Yes, let’s pray it’s the last one.

He drops his head back and howls at the ceiling: “Beatriiiiiiiix.” All hard consonants and dragged-out vowels, fueled by fury. If Cam or I called for Beatrix that way, she’d pee her pants.

I stare with wide eyes at the man, the way his fingers are creeping across the marble toward the gun. Tension buzzes in the air like static, and I hold my breath, but I don’t dare look away.

I listen for movement, the patter of footsteps or the creak of a door, but there’s nothing. No sounds, other than cool air blowing through the vents.

“Where is she?”

I drop the towel filled with ice in the sink. Screw this guy. Screw his apology ice pack.

“I don’t know.”

“Jade. I am not joking here. We’re running out of time.” He slides the gun from the counter, one smooth move from the marble to his glove to my face. There’s a good ten feet between the bullet and my skull and the space is dwindling.

Time for what?

I stare down the muzzle of the gun, and my chest swells and stills.

He aims at a spot directly between my eyes. “Let’s try this again. Where. Is. Beatrix?”

I hold up both hands—a sign of defeat, a useless shield—and squeeze my eyes tight. “I don’t know. I swear I don’t. Please don’t shoot.”

Something cool presses against my forehead, the hard metal pressing into my skin.

“Beatrix!” His shout is a loud roar.

I flinch hard enough to fall off my chair. The movement and the terror are messing with my equilibrium, and the world turns upside down. I open my eyes, just a slit, enough to catch my balance. The gun is still there, pressed against my forehead, but the man has his head turned, screaming over his shoulder into the living room and beyond.

“You get your sneaky little butt out here right now, missy, otherwise I’m putting a bullet in your mother’s skull. You have ten seconds to decide, not a second more, so you better get here fast.”

He pauses to listen, but there’s nothing but dead air and the sound of light panting—mine.

“Ten...nine...eight.”