“Stop,” I say when she reaches the stairs, then peer around the corner. I catch the tail end of a car whizzing by, but otherwise the street is empty. I jog across the living room floor.

Upstairs in the playroom, I flip off the TV, dumping the remote in a bowl on the table. “Back on the chair, missy.”

Four attached recliners in a curved row, covered in a buttery brown leather I mangled when I ripped the tape off Baxter. Beatrix’s getup is still intact, long lengths of tape a little looser in the middle, where she somehow managed to wriggle out.

This time, they’re going tighter. This time, I’ll make sure she’s good and anchored down.

Beatrix doesn’t move.

“Didn’t you hear me? I said, back on a chair.”

She sinks into the one behind her, one of the middle ones.

“Not that one.” I gesture with the Beretta to the opposite end of the couch. “I want you down there on the other end. As far away as possible from the door.”

She looks to her mother for confirmation, for help.

“But why?” Jade’s gaze flits between me and her daughter. “This is the one she usually sits in. What does it matter?”

“It matters because I said so. Now move.”

Still Beatrix doesn’t budge. And Jade just stands there clutching her daughter’s hand, watching me with bloodshot eyes above a shattered cheekbone. “Why are you doing this?”

“You know why. You’re the one who gave Cam his marching orders, remember? Though I will say, it’s taking him longer than I expected. If he doesn’t get that money over here in, oh—” I glance at my wrist, where an ancient Timex ticks away the seconds under two layers of black fabric “—exactly thirty-seven minutes, none of you are going to like what happens next.”

She blanches, brown hair floating around her face, and even with that cheek, she really is beautiful. And that stunt with the screwdriver downstairs, the way she’s constantly throwing herself in front of her kids. She’s a real daredevil, this one. I can see why Cam chose her.

I imagine him racing around town in that stupid truck of his, those ridiculous rims spinning on jacked-up, oversize tires. I hope he’s losing his mind with worry and desperation. I hope each second that ticks by pierces him like a bullet in the gut, that he’s realizing, this very second, the hopelessness of his mission. I wish I could be there for when the realization hits him—he can’t save the people he loves most in this world—when the guilt and desperation and helplessness sit on his chest with the weight of an elephant. I sure would enjoy seeing that.