My Darling Husband

by Kimberly Belle

  I stare at him in shock, in horror. “You’ve been spying on us?”

  “Don’t look so disgusted. I closed my eyes to your and Cam’s, uh, alone time. I didn’t watch because hell, good on you. Married all these years and still getting it on, bravo for you two lovebirds. But I’m no Peeping Tom. That’s not what any of this is about.”

  “What’s it about, then?”

  “I just told you. Those three cameras have been uploading today’s action—and hoo boy, has there been some action—to the internet.”

  “Why, so there’s video of you killing us?”

  The bastard rolls his eyes. “Hello. Who’s the one holding the weapon?”

  “You still have a switchblade.”

  “I also have a bullet in my shoulder, which hurts like a mother, by the way. And judging from the volume of those sirens outside, cops are about to bust through the front door and storm up here in—” he points a gloved finger to the ceiling, listening “—what do you think—two, three minutes tops? That doesn’t give us much time.”

  “Time for what?”

  “Time for your darling husband to get here with my money. Time for me to take it and disappear into the night.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense! You just told me there are people watching, which means they’ll know who you are. Cam and I know who you are. All of us can pick you out of a lineup.”

  He winces. “Yeah, I’m not going to lie, the pulling-off-the-mask bit wasn’t exactly part of the plan, but we’ve already determined I am a desperate, desperate man. I can’t let my baby girl die, Jade. Her death is not an option.”

  A tiny pang beats behind my breastbone.

  Understanding.

  Sympathy.

  As much as I hate Sebastian, as much as I hate what he’s done to me and my family, I feel sorry for the father who’s about to lose his daughter. I feel sorrow for Gigi’s illness, for having to live however many days she’s got left with the knowledge of what her father did—for her.

  Focus, Jade. This man doesn’t deserve your compassion.

  I spot a roll of duct tape on the floor by the windows.

  “Get up.” Without taking my aim off him, I push to a stand and shuffle Beatrix and me that way. “Stand up and move to the chair. Slowly.”

  “I hear it’s hard to get blood out of such fine Italian leather. That doesn’t seem like a very good plan.”

  “Get up.” I kick the roll closer with a foot, then poke the gun in his direction, aiming it at his face. “I mean it, Sebastian. Get on the chair.”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean, no? I’m the one holding the gun, remember? Now’s not the time to negotiate.”

  He gives a blithe shrug. “So shoot me.”

  “What about your daughter? How is me shooting you going to get her new lungs?”

  “Nothing is a guarantee, Jade. I’ve thought through every possibility of how to save my girl, and none of them is a sure bet.”

  “What about your cousin Tanya? Couldn’t she help?”

  A momentary flash of surprise—that I’ve done the math, that I’ve connected the dots—before his brows dip back into a frown. “That asshole ex of hers, Thomas, he’s a litigator. Her divorce agreement barely covers enough to feed and clothe the kids and mortgage payments, on a house he still owns. Tanya doesn’t have any money. She’s as broke as you and Cam.”

  “What are you talking about? Cam’s not broke. He owns five restaurants. Successful ones.”

  “Oh come on. You don’t still believe in that fairy tale, do you? His investors own the restaurants. He owes them more than he can pay.”

  “But Cam just told you he has the money. He’ll be here with it any minute.”

  “Sure, but we’ve already established your husband is a liar.”

  “He wouldn’t lie about something that important.”

  “Oh no? Did he tell you he pulled out of the Oakhurst deal because he’s broke? No—not just broke. Your husband is in hock up to his eyeballs.”

  I shake my head, a jerky back-and-forth that’s overly forceful. “That’s...that’s not true.”

  It might be true. Cam just told Sebastian that his shops were bleeding cash, and I’d have to be blind not to have noticed how about a year ago, Cam started wincing at the first question about work. How overnight, he sprouted frown lines and gray hair, how once frequent invitations from his investors suddenly dried up.

  But come on. Money problems? Not with this house, two kids in private school, a daughter under the tutelage of the most sought-after violin teacher in the city. Not with what we spend on cars and clothes and vacations. This past March, when I lost the tennis bracelet and matching earrings Cam gave me one Christmas, he gave me a new set without complaint. Why would he do that if he’s short on cash?

  Sebastian draws an X with a finger on his chest. “Swear to God. Not unless Cam’s suddenly won the lottery and even then, the buzzards would have picked his winnings clean. His creditors aren’t the type to play around.”

  Still, it makes no sense. If Sebastian knew there was no possibility of him walking out of here with the cash he needed for his daughter, why put us through all of this? Why risk his own life, his freedom, for a mission impossible?

  I don’t understand any of it.

  A pounding shakes the level beneath us, a boom of a boot against wood, and I know instinctively it’s not Cam. Cam has a key. He wouldn’t need to bust through his own front door.

  The police.

  Their sirens swirl loud and steady in the falling dusk just outside, and my gaze goes to the front of the house, to the stretch of solid wall bordering the hallway, through the wood and plaster and stone, down the hill to the painted brick two-story home across the street.

  Baxter.

  His name whispers through my brain, a siren’s song tugging me to him, a gravitational pull between me and my son. I don’t care about Sebastian, bleeding onto my wall. I don’t care about tying him down or shooting him in the face or taking out both his kneecaps. I don’t even care if he gets away. I can only think of one thing.

  I drop the tape to the floor and grab my daughter’s hand.

  J A D E

  7:09 p.m.

  Beatrix and I race down the stairs to the main floor, cloaked in shadow because nobody thought to turn on the lights.

  It’s a way I know by heart, and I’m navigating the dim space when I run smack into a body, a head-on collision with the human wall at the bottom of the stairs.

  Two massive men, big and solid like bouncers, their bodies blocking the way like giant boulders. I ricochet off their thick chests, and then I clutch Beatrix to me and scream.

  “Don’t shoot,” one of them says, holding up his hands. “We’re the good guys.”

  “Friends of Cam,” the other adds.

  Cam. At the name, my heart and lungs unclench, but not my finger on the trigger. I don’t know all of Cam’s friends, but I definitely don’t know these men. I might still need the gun.

  “Where is he? Where’s Cam?”

  “He’s meeting us at the car.”

  There’s a breath or two where I almost believe them, these two strange men who are motioning for me to follow them into the night just because they claim to be friends of Cam. Behind them, at the back of the house, the floor looks like a sky of stars, glass shards glittering in the glow of the outside lights.

  It’s not the front doors they just busted through. It’s the back.

  And why the back? The police are almost here, and they’ll be coming through the front. Why not throw open the doors and meet them outside?

  I’m also wondering what happened to the alarm, why it’s not wailing. Or maybe it is, and I’m just not hearing it over all the other noise—the crunch of glass, the approaching police, the blood pounding like Niagara Fal
ls in my ears.

  Beatrix twists around, her expression strangely calm as she stares out the front windows. The lawn is lit up like a laser show, swooping white arcs in a disco of red and blue. Police cars careening up the drive.

  The two men bolt for the back.

  “Let’s go,” one of them calls over his shoulder. “We gotta hustle.”

  “Tell Cam we’re going for Baxter.”

  I turn into a sudden light, white and blinding. Two giant spotlights pressed into the front-door glass, twin suns that ignite our skin, surrounding us with light brighter than day. Beatrix shades her eyes with an arm, but I just close mine. My hands are filled with the gun and a fistful of my daughter, and no way in hell I’m letting either of them go, even though I am all too aware of the danger. A loaded weapon, an obvious threat. I hold it in a loose fist by my side.

  Shouts bombard us through the doors.

  Open the door!

  Police!

  GUN.

  Freeze don’t move don’t move.

  The windows on the front door explode, a hailstorm of glass shattering on the foyer tiles, skipping across the marble to the hardwood. I open my eyes at a sound I know instinctively, a hand reaching inside to flip the dead bolt. Big black silhouettes stomp inside, crowding around us, barking questions. One of them pries the gun from my fingers.

  Ma’am, are you okay?

  Is your daughter hurt?

  Is either one of you injured?

  I reach for the first officer I see. “My son. He’s in the house across the street. He’s in danger.”

  J A D E

  7:14 p.m.

  Beatrix and I stand on Tanya’s front lawn, shoulder to shoulder with a female cop whose orders were to tackle me if I moved. I wanted to go in, of course I did. I told them I knew the layout of the house, could point out the rooms where Baxter might be, but the cops wouldn’t hear of it, so here I stand, stiff with terror, staring at Tanya’s front door and praying.

  That Baxter is inside.

  That he’s alive.

  That Tanya hasn’t hurt a hair on his body.

  “What’s taking so long?” Beatrix says. “Why can’t they find him?”

  I clutch her hand and try not to scream. I don’t think Tanya would hurt Bax or kidnap him, but what do I know? I’ve been wrong, so wrong about her. I stare at the house and think surely it can’t be much longer.

  A dog barks in the not-so-far distance, the deep, animated chuffs of a very large, very angry animal, and I picture Sebastian running up on it in a neighbor’s backyard. I’m sure he’s made a run for it by now, and I can’t drum up an ounce of concern that he might have escaped the police. They’ll catch up to him soon enough, and right now I can only think of one thing. I stare at the jagged line of Tanya’s rooftop rising into the darkening sky, and my heart twists into a painful knot.

  “Jade.” The voice comes from behind us, and I whirl around to spot Cam dodging police cars as he sprints down the hill.

  “Daddy!” Beatrix wrenches her hand from mine and takes off across the grass, racing to meet her father halfway. Their feet hit the asphalt of Club Drive at the same time, and she takes a flying leap that lands her in Cam’s arms. They close around her in an instant.

  “Oh my God. Oh my God. You’re okay.” Cam cradles Beatrix to his chest, and I go mushy with relief, with joy. “Thank God, you’re okay.”

  “I shot him, Daddy. I shot the bad man.”

  “I know, baby cakes, and it almost gave me a heart attack. Please don’t ever do that again. My old heart can’t take it.” His gaze searches out mine like a heat-seeking missile. “Let’s go see Mommy.”

  But I’m already almost there, jogging across the lawn, calling to him across the driveway. “I gave him to Tanya, Cam. I didn’t know.”

  “Didn’t know what?” He stops at the edge of the grass, taking me in, his brow crumpling. “Oh, babe, your face. I’m so sorry he did that to you.” He reaches out a hand, stops just short of touching my broken cheek with his palm. “I’m sorry for a lot of things.”

  I shake my head, tears smearing my vision because now is not the time for apologies. I need Cam to hear me. I need him to understand.

  I clamp my fingers around his forearm, the one wrapped around Beatrix’s back, and give it a good shake. “Tanya is Sebastian’s cousin. She has Baxter.”

  Understanding flashes on Cam’s face, and from deep in the house come shouts. A child’s scream. A deeper voice barking orders. With a jolt, he shoves Beatrix in my arms and takes off at full sprint for the door.

  The police officer isn’t fast enough to stop him, but she stops me, pulling me back by an arm.

  Her grip is like a vise on my wrist. “Wait. Wait until it’s safe.”

  But when will that be?

  I clutch Beatrix tight and think of my sweet, funny baby boy, picturing him safe on Tanya’s couch, blissed out with a belly full of pizza. I think of what I’ll do if that’s the case, all the sacrifices I will make to repay the universe. I’ll see to it that that vile man’s daughter gets her lungs. I’ll donate my house, my jewels, my car if I have to. I’ll do anything.

  “If you really want to quit violin, you can, you know.” I press a kiss into my daughter’s hair. “I’m sorry I pushed you so hard.”

  All my prodding for Beatrix to log her practice hours, my tiger-mom tendencies and inflated expectations for her future, my pushing her into auditions or the spotlight whenever my friends came around. I told myself it was because as her parent, I was responsible for ensuring she honors this magnificent gift she’s been given by God, by the universe. But maybe her perfectionist tendencies come from me, in an effort to please me.

  Which can mean only one thing.

  Beatrix is not the one who needs to change.

  I am.

  I make a silent vow: no more dragging her across town to lessons three times a week. No more hiding the remote because it’s practice time or dismissing her tears because she’s sacrificing yet another social event for the violin. No more bandaging calluses and bloody fingers—not unless she chooses to put them there herself. From now on, whenever Beatrix tells me she wants to quit, I will shower her with kisses and tell her it’s up to her. I will hand her the controls, allow her to dictate the contents of her own life. My daughter can be anything she wants to be. Who am I to decide?

  Slowly, she shakes her head against my shoulder.

  “Seriously, Bea. You can play piano or softball or take art lessons, or you can lie on the couch and do nothing at all. This is your life, not mine. You get to decide how to fill it.”

  “But I don’t want to quit. Not until I get the Locatelli, and even then.” She shakes her head again, and her voice is quiet but resolute. “I don’t want to quit.”

  “Then why did you say you wanted to?”

  She leans back just enough to give me a sheepish grin. “My legs were tired. At least with the piano you get to sit down.”

  Miss Juliet’s schoolmarm voice barks in my mind. Back straight. Spine aligned. Head up. Violin begins with good posture, always. Most parents want their children to grow up. Cam and I should have spent more time coaxing Beatrix to grow down.

  I drop a kiss on her nose. “You are my hero, do you know that? What you did this afternoon was so brave, and I am so unbelievably proud to be your mother.”

  She wraps her arms around my neck and squeezes, her curls tickling my ear. “Did Daddy really do that to the bad man’s daughter?”

  My mind stutters back to Cam’s coerced confession, the heartlessness and money problems Sebastian dragged into the daylight, offenses that sometime in the past ten minutes I’ve already forgiven. There’s nothing like watching your firstborn daughter wielding a gun to illuminate the things that matter. Cam. The Bees. I can get past anything but losing one of them.

  “I don’
t know, baby. Maybe. But none of it matters without Bax. Let’s get him back first, and then we’ll think about how we fix our family.”

  And I will fix this family. No matter what happens next, Cam and I will claw back the power Sebastian took from us when he stepped out of the shadows and forced his way into our home. Some things are impossible to put behind you, but this will not be one of them. If it’s the last thing I do, I will fix us.

  Suddenly, there’s commotion at the front door. A cluster of bodies emerging, big and small. Tanya’s kids, the Montgomery twins from down the street, Cam with a Baxter-sized body balanced on an arm. My heart stops, and I squint into the darkness, unable to move.

  And then a small voice, soft and scratchy and as familiar as my own pulse, the most beautiful sound in the world: “Whoa. How come there are so many cops?”

  S E B A S T I A N

  Ten Minutes Earlier

  No money. A bullet in my shoulder. The whole house shaking from the cops busting in downstairs. This wasn’t exactly how I planned for things to go.

  And all because of that sneaky little Beatrix, wriggling out of her bindings not once, but two times. She looked so cute when I fixed them a snack. An adorable little Houdini in a pink polka-dot shirt. It’s why I underestimated her, because she reminded me so much of my Gigi.

  I shove my aching body to a stand, wincing at the sharp stab in my shoulder. Beatrix’s bullet ripped through muscles and tendons, I can tell, maybe nipped at a bone, but at least it missed my heart, and it shot all the way through. I know from the heavy wetness on the back of my shirt, the red smear I leave on the wall. The drips that fall from my elbow to the fancy carpet as I limp to the side table and my phone.

  The screen is lit up with a million messages—no surprise there. Tanya and my sister, Hannah, blowing up my phone, the back-to-back calls and messages practically vibrating it off the table where I dumped it next to the gun. I ignore their messages and fire off a text to Hannah.

  Send the link to tonight’s video to Juanita Moore, her card is on the fridge. Do it now, quick, before the cops arrive. People are either going to hate me for what I did, or they’ll understand. I’m counting on you to make sure enough fall in the second category to help Gigi. Love on her for me, sis. Take care of my baby girl. I love you.