“No, the kids want one. Don’t you, kids?” He peers into the footed white fruit bowl perched on the edge of the breakfast bar and fishes out a red apple, holding it up like the evil stepmother. “Beatrix and—what’s the little guy’s name?”

The bony arm wrapped around my thigh tightens. I don’t want to say my son’s name out loud. I don’t want his name on this monster’s tongue.

The man waits. His smile disappears. He cocks his head with faux curiosity, and his eye sockets look bruised in the bright lights of the kitchen. I wonder if he’s tired, or maybe sick. I wonder if his health has anything to do with why he’s here, if this is about money or something else.

He points to Baxter with the gun, a silent threat. “Jade, I just asked you a question.”

“Baxter.” I push my son behind me, but I’m not exactly the best cover. I’m five foot four on the best of days, and I’m in yoga gear, skintight leggings over legs that have always fallen on the wrong side of skinny. “Please. He’s only six.”

The man steps closer, his footsteps magnified on the hardwood. We scurry backward into the mudroom until there’s nowhere left for us to go, until we’re pressed between the shoe cubbies and a wall.

He squats, putting him eye to eye with the kids. “Baxter. Beatrix. That’s some nice names you two got there. Real fancy. Are y’all hungry?”

The y’all is genuine, as is his slight Southern twang. A detail I file away in my brain for later.

Both kids shake their heads.

The man pushes to a stand, gesturing for them to follow. “Come on. Let’s get you something to eat.”

He ambles into the kitchen like it’s his own, stepping to the opposite side of the breakfast bar, heading for the glass-front cabinet with the plates and glasses. He pulls out four plates, then spreads them across the marble-topped island. “How about you, Jade? You look like you could use a sandwich or something.”

I don’t respond. The kids and I don’t move. We stare at him from the mudroom, our soles superglued to the floor.