Her fingers freeze, and she crosses her arms, pressing both palms in her armpits. “It’s notes.”

“Notes to what?”

“Bach’s B minor partita. You wouldn’t understand. It’s classical.”

Partita—the same term Jade used downstairs. But it’s Beatrix’s other words I’m focused on. The ones that insinuated I’m stupid.

“Just because I don’t listen to classical music doesn’t mean I don’t know what a partita is. Of course I know what a partita is. You look like the flute type.”

She makes a face like I just offered her a bowl of shit soup. “The partita for flute is in A minor, not B. I play the violin.”

That expression, her snide tone. It’s a reaction I’ve seen a million times, as familiar as a favorite old coat. It’s exactly how Gigi would have responded at that age.

The nostalgia lasts only a second or two before dissolving into something sharp and hot. I breathe through it, a series of quick and shallow breaths.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I don’t have a gun aimed at your head. Like you have a death wish.”

The little shit actually rolls her eyes, and this kid. This spunky little kid. From the second we walked in the house, she’s been a thorn in my side. Staring me down. Daring me to punish her.

“I’m serious, kid. Look away, or this gun is the last thing you’ll see.”

“Beatrix, for God’s sake, stop,” Jade says, and to her credit, she hasn’t moved. But she’s put some space between her chair and the bar and positioned herself at the edge of the seat.

But it does the trick. Beatrix swings her gaze to her mom. “What.”

Not a question, and even though she clearly doesn’t expect an answer, I give her one. “Don’t be a hero.” I flick the gun back and forth between the two. “Don’t either of you do anything you’ll regret.”

I’m talking to both of them, but my words are especially for Jade, whose expression is wild. Wide eyes glistening with a combination of fury and horror. Second cheek flushing purple to match the first. Her life or Beatrix’s? I can tell she’s already made the choice.

By now Beatrix is close enough for me to grab her by the shirt. One good tug and I’ve dragged her into the kitchen.

“That was a really stupid trick you pulled. Really reckless. You almost got your mother killed. You know that, right? She almost got a bullet in her brain because of you. Now say you’re sorry.”

I wait for some kind of reaction, a flicker of regret or a mumbled apology, but the kid gives me nothing. She doesn’t even blink.