Juanita: Okay, but what led up to him breaking those things? And what do you say to the other complaints, the ones of improper firings and questionable business practices?

Cam: I’d say I made a ton of mistakes. I’d say I got carried away by the glitz and the fame, by the television appearances and fancy parties and people eating at a Lasky steak house just so they could get a picture with me. What’s that old saying? The higher your star, the farther it is to fall. That’s not an excuse, but I hope it’s an explanation, at least.

Juanita: How many lawsuits are you dealing with right now?

Cam: Enough.

Juanita: How many, Mr. Lasky?

Cam: Three. The fourth we settled last week.

Juanita: So when you received the call from Jade that someone was in your home, holding your family for ransom, did you suspect any of your former employees and business partners?

Cam: I suspected all of them.

J A D E

3:52 p.m.

The asshole separated us.

After he rushed the three of us upstairs, after he tied me to the blue chair in the guest room, he pressed a six-inch strip of silver duct tape over my mouth, took the kids by the hands and led them out the door.

Now they are in the playroom across the hall, doing God knows what, while I am here, helpless, attached to a chair. Losing my damn mind.

What is he doing to them?

What is happening?

I hold my breath and strain to hear, but I can’t pick up on anything other than a muffled murmur of their voices spilling into the hallway and my own heart banging against my ribs. From where I sit, I can see a slice of hall, one of the two double doors swung wide, but that room is like a vault. Walls soundproofed within an inch of their life, with double layers of insulated drywall lined with vinyl sheets and pockets of air so that Cam can crank the volume on his movies up to deafening, and the rest of the house doesn’t have to listen along.

But with the doors open, I would hear if there was screaming. If God forbid there were gunshots. I think these things, and my entire world teeters on a knife-edge. I am shaking—no, convulsing with fear and frustration and fury. If he hurts them, if he so much as touches a hair on my babies’ heads, I will kill him with my bare hands.

I thrash against my bindings, but they hold firm. Braided vinyl rope, bright yellow and scratchy, wrapped multiple times around each ankle and wrist then strapped to the brass arms and legs of this blue velvet chair. The rope is too tight to wriggle loose, the slipknot tied with a sailor’s skill. No way I can pull free without a knife.