A fire sparks in my chest, and I clamp on to her shoulders and give her a mighty shake. A bone-rattling, skin-quaking, teeth-jangling shake. I’m still fisting the gun, and the weapon presses hard into her shoulder, against bone, and it’s got to hurt. She flops around like a bobblehead, but I can’t pick up the slightest trace of regret in her eyes. No pain, either, not even a twitch.

Only hatred.

Yeah, kid. Sure as shit is the feeling mutual.

“STOP,” Jade screams, springing off her chair, and she’s fast, I’ll give her that. She’s lunged around the bar and into the kitchen before I can let go of her kid, planting herself directly behind me. “Stop! Take your hands off her!”

I let the kid go because one more shake and Jade would have jumped on my back, and beyond the fact that it’s still on fire from the screwdriver, I need to defuse the situation. I need to get everybody back upstairs and into the theater. Today is too important. I don’t have time for this.

I shove Beatrix in her mama’s direction, and now, finally, she makes a sound, a long, high squeal of relief. Jade sweeps Beatrix into her arms, murmuring words I can’t quite hear, squeezing her against her chest and patting down her hair. I give them five seconds. This little reunion would almost be touching if we weren’t running so short on time.

“Okay. So here’s how it’s gonna go. The three of us are going to march our asses back upstairs, where you—” I flick the gun at the girl’s head “—get yours strapped to a chair. And don’t expect any softballs from me this time. No cartoons. No reclining the seats until they’re the perfect angle. And no lightening up on the tape because it smelled weird or it yanked on your skin. Do you understand what I’m telling you here? There’ll be no getting loose this time. Now let’s go.”

I round them up with the Beretta, and order them to walk up the stairs.

Jade clutches her daughter by her shoulders, and she keeps her head high as she leads her across the living room. I don’t miss the look of longing she casts as she passes the front door, searching for someone—maybe Baxter—out on the street, praying for a happy accident or kismet, a person down there, a savior, who will look up at just the right moment. I keep the gun trained on her back and watch her for a reaction. But either there’s nobody out there or she’s a damn fine actress.

And I already know that she’s not.