The man pokes his head around the corner, checking out the space where the mudroom spills into the house. He takes in the sleek chef’s kitchen that was featured in Bon Appétit, the keeping room with a giant sectional facing a fireplace topped with a flat screen, the more formal living room that made the cover of Atlanta Homes & Lifestyles, every piece lovingly designed and selected by me. Hours and hours of my very best work.

“Nice place you got here.” He turns back with an appreciative nod, and I swallow down a sour tremor.

His words are pleasant enough but not his tone, so hostile that my nerves stir with fright. I can hear the thoughts tripping through his brain. That we have too much. That he has too little. It’s such an about-face from his demeanor in the garage, calm and matter-of-fact even when waving around his gun, it makes my legs go mushy.

I push my words through clenched teeth: “What now?”

If the man hears me, he doesn’t respond. He’s too busy exploring, moving through the back part of the house, taking in the furnishings. The custom rug in the keeping room, the portrait of the kids that covers a whole wall, the Marcel Wanders chandelier with more than three hundred twinkling lights. He takes it all in with greedy, observant eyes.

The room is spinning, and I need to sit down, but I’m too afraid to move. I stand in the doorway of the mudroom, Baxter clinging to me. Beatrix stands on my other side, her back ramrod straight, her feet shoulder-width apart like Miss Juliet is always coaching. I wrap a hand around each of my children, pressing them close until there’s no air between us.

He’s almost to the living room now. Only a few more steps and he’ll be in full view of anyone who happens to be outside. Runners. Bikers. Neighbors out walking their dog. We live on the edge of a golf course, and this is an active, busy neighborhood.

Suddenly, he lurches to a stop, parking his soles at the edge of the keeping room. One more step and he’ll be in full view of whoever’s out on the street. If I were closer, I could plant both hands on his chest and shove him there, screaming loud enough to get their attention.

But I can’t see from where I’m standing. I can’t tell if there’s anyone out there. Probably, but I only get one chance. I can’t waste it until I know for sure.

Behind the dark fabric of his mask, his lips stretch into a thin line. “I heard you say something about a snack.”

“You...” I shake my head. Is he playing with me? “You want a snack?”