The man shuffles us farther into the darkness, nudging me down a strip of concrete studded on either side—a future hallway lined with future rooms. He finds the light switch and flips it on, two more dusty bulbs that cast a buttery yellow glow.

“Yo, Beatrix. We know you’re down here, girlie. Might as well come out from whatever old box you’re hiding behind. I promise you nothing bad will happen. I won’t hurt you, but only if you show your face right now.”

Still nothing. Just a long stretch of strangled silence while I listen for movement above our heads, footsteps or the squeak of a floorboard. Wherever Beatrix is in this house, she’s good and hunkered down.

“Now you.” The scratchy male voice comes with another stab of the muzzle.

“Now me, what?”

“What the hell do you think? Call for your daughter. Tell her to come out of hiding. She’ll listen to you.”

Doubtful. There’s no way my voice is going to coax Beatrix out of hiding, not with a masked man standing right here, holding me and her brother at gunpoint. Beatrix may only be nine, but she’s not stupid, and nobody has ever accused her of being overly obedient. Just ask any of her teachers.

And then there’s also the fact that I don’t want my daughter to be found. I want her to stay hidden until seven, until Cam arrives with his big bag of cash and this man does whatever it is he came here to do.

My mind is finally coming around to what I’ve known in my gut for almost an hour now—this is no textbook ransom plot. Yes, this man held a gun to my head while I assured Cam our lives would be spared, as long as he brought home the money on time.

But he’s already proven he is a liar.

“Do it,” the man says, digging the gun into my ribs. “Tell your daughter to get out here.”

I turn, calling into the darkness. “Beatrix, sweetie. If you’re down here, I need you to come out now. It’s time for you to come out.”

My voice trembles, a combination of fear and red-hot fury. Now I know how the circus lions feel, why they sometimes lose it and chomp off their tamer’s whip-snapping arm. If I didn’t have two children to protect, I’d go for this man’s blood, too.

The only sound is Baxter breathing into my shoulder.

The man gives another thrust to the gun, jabbing it deeper into my bone. “Tell her it’s safe.”

“I don’t think she’s down here.”

The pressure between my ribs releases, the pain dulling to a low throb. My muscles release until I realize the gun isn’t gone; it’s just moved. The muzzle is pressed into Baxter’s thigh.