He dumps some onto one of the plates and steps around to the other side of the island, choosing a strategic spot between the counter and the fridge. Holding his gun trained on us, he tugs on the handle with his other hand, taking in the contents of the fully stocked fridge with an impressed hum. The labeled shelves and bins, the outward facing jars, the neat stacks of plastic containers filled with sliced vegetables and fruits. A chef’s fridge is a beautiful thing.

I watch him and I notice everything, committing every detail to memory so that I can recite it later—to the cops, in a courtroom.

Assuming we survive.

Either way, this will be all over the news. An armed and masked man, forcing his way into a celebrity chef’s home in a country-club neighborhood. What happens here will go far beyond Atlanta’s nightly newscasts. Reporters all over the country will spend hours reporting on today’s timeline, nitpicking the second-to-second details, amplifying my every move and mistake. My picture and those of the kids will be flashed on every LCD screen across the country. Even if we don’t survive—especially then—people will know our names. They will recognize our faces. The kind of fame no one wishes for.

He pulls out a packet of string cheese and studies the nutritional information. “If you’re going to eat this crap, you should probably go for the full-fat version. Because this just tastes like salty plastic, but hey. Eight grams of protein, so I guess it’s not all bad.”

He rips off three portions and tosses them across the kitchen to me. The throw falls short, and they bounce off the edge of the bar and land in the sink with a slap. I leave them there while he washes a bag of green grapes at the far sink.

Under the marble of the bar overhang, Beatrix’s hand crawls across my lap.

No, not her hand. Something smooth and cool and hard, and I don’t have to look down to know it’s my iPhone.

Clever, clever girl.

I pat her leg in silent praise, then lift the phone from my leg, feeling around on the sides to figure out which way is up.

“So.” The man shakes the water from the bag of grapes and carries it around the island. “Let’s talk about your security system.”

Three feet between us at most, separated by a stretch of marble counter. I slide the cell phone down my leg, balancing it on a knee, trying to remember how to call 9-1-1 without using the keypad. Three clicks to one of the side buttons? Four? I try it, three rapid-fire clicks, but I don’t dare to look down because now he’s staring right at me. His squinty eyes pinned on mine, waiting for me to answer. I remind myself to breathe.

“Hello, earth to Jade. Your security system?”