And then I notice the marks on her socks, and I wonder if she was tied to a chair, too. No, taped to the chair, one of the reclining theater seats in the playroom. That was the sound I heard before, the harsh creak of the duct tape ripping off leather so Baxter could race to the bathroom.

But it doesn’t explain how Beatrix managed to wriggle free.

Especially if her bindings were anything like mine, double and triple wrapped around my skin, as unforgiving as steel cuffs. Other than a slimy arm and a dull throbbing behind my front teeth, I’ve gotten nowhere with the knot at my wrist. Clearly, I am not one of those mothers who could lift a car to save her children, or bust out of chains like the female version of the Hulk. I strain against my bindings, but my arms and legs don’t budge.

I’m stuck.

Helpless.

But not Beatrix. She stands there and stares at me, her eyes big and wide and round.

Go, I mouth, but I don’t dare call out to her, not even a whisper. And honestly, go where? Not back to the playroom, certainly. The man will be back in what—thirty seconds? A minute? Not enough time for Beatrix to get very far. And as soon as she opens any of the doors downstairs, she’ll trip the alarm.

At the sound of the first siren I start shooting, and the first two bullets are for the kids.

If Beatrix is lucky, she might escape, but Baxter and I surely won’t. There are no good answers here.

Go.

Beatrix nods, but her feet don’t come unglued from the floor.

I hold my breath and listen to the noise coming from farther down the hall. Baxter is still chattering away, the occasional word piercing the low hum of water running through the pipes. Washing his hands at the sink, I’m guessing, which means he’s close to finishing up. The man is still silent, nearby but unaccounted for, which terrifies me. He could be waiting by the door. He could be halfway to the hall by now. What if he comes back to check on Beatrix?

I shake my head at her, but I don’t know what I mean by it. Don’t get caught? Don’t leave me here? Both, probably. My hands ball into tight, frustrated fists.

On the other end of the hall, a toilet flushes. A door creaks, followed by footsteps.

Go! I mouth the word again, stretching my lips around it so she understands, leaning forward and adding another: Run!

And this time—finally, thankfully—she does.