The man stands there, waiting, while in my mind I tick off the sharpest, most deadly weapons in the house. The knives, the cast-iron pans in the drawer, the tools hanging from Cam’s workbench downstairs. Even if I could somehow manage to get to one, can it go up against a gun? I’d have to catch this guy off guard, sink the blade in the fleshy part of his throat or an eyeball, bury it deep before he even noticed it was coming—a challenge with a man so big, so broad, his eyes ever watching from behind the mask. The timing would have to be perfect, my attack smooth and without hesitation. Not exactly a master plan.

And then something else occurs to me, something that sends up a sour, bitter wave.

If I get myself killed, who will watch out for my children?

“Beatrix,” the man says, leveling his gaze on my daughter. “I asked you a question. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

Answer him, baby. Nod. Let him know you understand.

Beatrix’s chin quivers, but she doesn’t otherwise move. She stares straight ahead, breathing hard.

Frustration mixes with fear mixes with pride. Beatrix is stubborn, just like her father. She has been since the second she came screaming into the world, fists slinging. Just last month, she went through a phase where she existed on saltines and air, where no matter how much I begged or prodded or threatened or coaxed or cried, she refused to take so much as a single bite of anything else. A chef’s daughter, and the pickiest eater ever. She wore me down, every single night. The calories in a pack of saltines may be empty, but at least they’re calories.

And now...

Now I recognize that look on her face—the squinty eyes, the puckered mouth—and it terrifies me because I know what it means.

“So you’re one of those, huh?”

Beatrix frowns. Her expression says, One of what? but she’s too proud to say the words out loud. Her left-hand fingers are going nuts, tapping out a silent melody against her thigh—something she does when she’s bored or nervous or uncomfortable.

The man knocks his skull with a knuckle, then leans with both arms onto the counter. “A hard nut to crack.” His arms are crossed at the wrist, the gun held casually in a fist. It jiggles as he talks, and the positioning is purposeful. “Obstinate. Headstrong. Admirable traits when they come in small doses, but beware, young lady. They can also be your downfall.”

I stare at the gun, tracing a line between the muzzle and a freckle just above Beatrix’s left brow. One tweak to the trigger and there’s a hole in my daughter’s head. The thought snags on repeat through my brain and echoes.

If this man shoots my daughter, I will murder him.