Except for two candy-red spots high on her cheeks, Beatrix’s face is shockingly pale, white and translucent like melted candle wax, like a body dredged from the depths. The effect is terrifying, especially when coupled with her voice, high with icy anger.

“No. Not until he gets back to the wall. All the way. Mommy, make him move.”

The sirens are getting steadier now, undulating waves through the air on the back side of the house, which means they’ve made the turn into the neighborhood.

“Sweetie, give me the gun.”

Beatrix’s body is wound tight, her shoulder muscles bunched under her pink polka-dot shirt.

Sebastian’s gaze flicks to mine, his eyes going wide, like do something. “Put the gun down, missy.”

“I’m not your missy.”

I move on my knees, edging closer to curl my hand around Beatrix’s, take control of the gun and shoot Sebastian in the head. And just to be sure, I’ll shoot him in the heart, too. Bang bang. Dead.

And then I will carry this gun out the door and across the road and point it at Tanya until she gives me back my son. I will tear her limbs from her body if I have to.

Sebastian points a gloved finger to the ceiling. “Hear that? They’ll be here any minute.”

I keep my eyes on Sebastian, the gun a black blur in my periphery. “It’s true, sweetie. The police are on their way. They’re coming to save us. Let them handle this, please. Give the gun to me.”

I reach for the gun, at the same time Beatrix steps to the side, and my hand swipes air. I don’t try again because I know that expression, the way her eyes and jaw are locked down tight. There’s no way she’s putting that weapon down, not even for me. Not even for the police.

Beatrix’s finger tightens around the trigger.

Sebastian’s gaze zeroes in on the gun. “Hey, watch it there. That gun has a heavy recoil. You might want to loosen up on that trigger.”

Beatrix lifts the gun higher, aiming it at Sebastian’s chest.

Dead center.

“Okay, fine, you got me, but don’t do anything you’re going to regret. Once you pull that trigger, there’s no going back. You can’t take back a bullet.”

My daughter squeezes her eyes and the trigger.

J A D E

7:02 p.m.

Unlike my daughter’s, my eyes are wide-open. I see the flash of the gun as the bullet takes flight, the way the recoil is a sledgehammer to Beatrix’s shoulder, how it pops her clear off her feet, bounces her body off the recliner and sends her sprawling.