“Exactly. Nothing good will happen. Only bad. So I’m asking you again, Jade, where is Beatrix? And please note that this is a question, but it’s also a warning. I want you to think long and hard before you answer, because if I find out later you’re lying, I’ll take out Beatrix first, and then Baxter. And I will make you watch.”

Baxter plucks his thumb from his mouth with a soft pop. “Take us out where?”

I stare into the man’s eyes, too afraid to blink mine. “I swear to you. I do not know.”

“Take us where?” Baxter says again, frowning at the man’s back. He’s alert now, slowly becoming aware. Something is very wrong here.

My brain races with panicked thoughts, trying to come up with one that will buy us some time. “What about the money?”

The man cocks his head. The knife is fisted in a gloved hand—a threat and a promise at the same time. No prints, no DNA left behind. A backpack full of tape and rope and weapons. A sore knot ices over in my chest. This man has come prepared. He knows what he’s doing. Maybe he’s done this before.

“What about it?” he says.

“Cam isn’t stupid. He’s done hundreds of deals, and he’ll know to demand proof of life before he gives you anything. You won’t get a cent if all of us are dead.”

Baxter’s eyes goggle at the last word, and he shoves his thumb back in his mouth and sucks hard enough to make his cheeks pucker. Our eyes meet, and I recognize that expression, the way one eyebrow squiggles up and the other down in a way that makes Cam laugh and call him Lord Farquaad.

It means Baxter is a ticking time bomb, one single bad moment away from a meltdown.

The man puffs a breathy laugh, sour meat and bitter coffee. “Cam’s not going to have much of a choice in the matter. Now come on.”

I know I should be projecting calm. I should be stuffing down my own fears in order to protect my son’s emotional well-being. A child should never feel unsafe in his own home. I should be reassuring him everything is okay.

But this is life and death. Literally. And everything is not okay.

The man rushes me with the knife, and I throw myself backward, but there’s nowhere for me to go. My skull connects with the wall, setting off a burst of fireworks behind my eyes. The room spins with a wave of pain, of terror. I’m vaguely aware that I’m screaming.

Baxter lets out an earsplitting, high-pitched howl, and I know I should console him. My screams are only escalating things, spiraling Bax higher and higher into a panic, like tossing kerosene on a fire.