The truth is, this only used to be the case. Cam and I fell in love while building his brand. Some of our best date nights were spent making the rounds, bouncing from restaurant to restaurant so he could check on things in the kitchen while I schmoozed with the customers and made sure the lounge pillows were fluffed and the flower arrangements fresh. Yes, it was work, but there was plenty of time for socializing as well—sending over free apps whenever we spotted friends, popping by their table for a glass of wine, offering folks a free cocktail at the bar. Every night was work and one big party all rolled into one. Once upon a time, it was how Cam and I connected.

But that was before kids, and homework and bedtime rituals and early-morning carpools that had me crawling under the comforter by ten. Cam and I make it a point to eat lunch together most days, but we rarely talk about work. Not for a while now.

“What about Cam’s business?” I say.

Across from me, the man’s lips spread in a hideous smile, and I know I’m giving this asshole exactly what he wants, but my reasoning is more than just bald-faced curiosity. Every hint he drops, every tiny tidbit he buries in a sentence he thinks I won’t notice...they’re all clues. At some point this man will make a mistake and say something revealing. The more I know, the more chances I have to survive this thing. At some point, I will catch my enemy off guard.

“I can’t decide if you’re playing with me,” he says, his words slow, thoughtful, “or if you really don’t know.”

He falls silent, a long, strategic pause as he watches me with dark, observant eyes. He’s waiting for me to engage, to beg him for information, but I don’t respond. If Cam were here, he’d tell me I’m being too proud.

Baxter’s singsong voice carries across the hall, the sound too low for me to pick out his words from the TV soundtrack, and his chatter both soothes and terrifies me. It means Baxter and Beatrix are conscious, that they’re safe—as the man said, for now. Assuming Cam can scrounge up three-quarters of a million dollars and somehow make it home by seven—two colossal assumptions. I just have to keep the kids alive until then, but how am I supposed to do that when I’m stuck in this chair?

The man twists around on the bed, facing the open doorway. “Yo, Bax.”

I try to think of something to stop him, to keep his focus on me, on right here in this room, but my mind is thick as peanut butter.

A stomach-fluttering pause, then a high voice floats across the hall: “Yeah?”