I stare at the door, the breath going solid in my lungs. From across the hall, the TV blares sounds from The Loud House, thumping the air in thundering bursts. I’ve always hated that show.

He comes around the corner, a slouchy black shadow palming a gun. He sees me and stops in the doorway, feigning surprise. “There you are. The kids and I have been looking all over for you.”

I scream into the tape, “Let me go!” It comes out as a long, frantic squeal that ignites the back of my throat.

He steps into the room, his sneakers swishing on the vintage Moroccan shag, and settles the gun atop the dresser on the far wall. “So...how you been? What have you been up to? Been keeping yourself busy?”

I scream into the duct tape again, the silver strip flexing a bubble that pulls like razors on the skin around my lips. I strain against the rope, the yellow strands cutting into my sweaty skin, marring ditches into the velvet armrests.

With his free hand, he cups the lump that is his ear. “Sorry, but I didn’t quite catch that.” His grin inflates, and he laughs again, an exaggerated sound. “It’s called enunciation. You should try it sometime.”

He stands there for a few empty seconds, letting his stupid joke flutter and die. Christ, how I loathe this man.

His gaze darts around the room, taking everything in, pausing on the lamps, the vase, the lucite bowl. I wonder if he’s doing what I did, cataloging them as possible weapons. When he looks back at me, he’s no longer smiling. “You have a real nice house here. Really nice. Did you do all this yourself, or did you use a decorator?”

Even if I could respond to that, I wouldn’t. There’s no way I’m going to explain myself to this man. How I’ve forgotten my mother’s smile but I remember every detail of the flouncy curtains she spent months cutting and stitching, or the way she would fill the house with flowers and branches she cut from the yard. I’m enough of an armchair psychologist to understand the reasons I’ve spent my life since surrounding myself with pretty things, or why I gave up a career that fed the hole in my soul to spend more time with the kids. This man doesn’t deserve to know that about me.

Plus, if I’m right, if it’s money this guy is after, there’s no good answer to his question. Yes, I used a designer—me. And while I didn’t pay a design fee, I also didn’t pinch pennies. Every inch of this place bears my fingerprint. This house, these carpets and tables and meticulously sourced decor, it’s some of my finest work.