The man calls out into the shadows, “Beatrix, if you’re down here, sweetie, now would be the time to make yourself known. Come out now and I promise not to hurt you.”

No answer. Only the sound of Baxter’s shallow breaths against my shoulder. I cover my son’s head with a hand, his fine hair tangling in my fingers.

“Are there any doors or windows?”

I turn, gesturing to where dim light trickles like water from somewhere deep in the darkness, a window well concealed behind thick hedges. Even on sunny days, very little light makes it through.

“Stay here while I check,” he says. “Move and both of you get a bullet.”

While he’s gone, I shift Baxter to my opposite hip to give my bicep a break. He’s a deadweight, forty-two pounds of bone and muscle dragging on my shoulder, my back, my neck where his arms hang from it. My entire upper body is on fire, muscles shaking, joints throbbing. But I know what would happen if I put him down: he’d scream and wail and pitch a fit, and I need to save that for when I need a distraction.

“Locked up tight.” He jabs me in the back with his pistol, a harsh gesture that means move it.

I lurch forward with a hot burst of adrenaline. If I didn’t have Baxter hanging from me like a monkey, that would have been my chance. I could have lunged for him. I could have grabbed his wrist with one hand, the gun with the other, and wrestled it from his grip like some badass TV spy. I probably would’ve gotten shot, but maybe, just maybe, I could have knocked off his aim to somewhere it wouldn’t kill me. An arm, maybe, or a foot. Bloody and painful, but not fatal. And then I’d grab the gun and shoot him in the face.

But I can’t fight back—I wouldn’t even dare try—not with Baxter clutched to my hip.

That’s when it occurs to me: the most terrifying part of being a parent isn’t this monster holding the gun. It’s the idea that something I do or don’t do could get my children killed. That I could be to blame for their deaths. That they would die, and I would be both a witness and the cause. How would I ever live with myself?

Then again, I probably wouldn’t have to.

Beatrix first, and then Baxter. And I will make you watch.

The third bullet in the gun pressing between my ribs would be for me.

I think of what that would be like for Cam, walking in on three dead bodies, and my eyes go hot with tears. I should have told him I loved him. I should have led with those words before anything else. I should have started the call with the most important.