As if from a great distance, she heard Jada’s anguished cries.
Jada. . my baby. . no. .
Fear reined her away from the brink and brought her vision back into sharp focus.
Grunting, Leon was attempting to turn her over, but was having a hard time getting a firm hold on her oiled skin.
“Let me go!”
She snatched her arm free of him and mashed the heel of her hand into the base of his throat. His teeth clicked in the back of his mouth, and he emitted a strangled gasp.
As he choked and gagged, she scrambled from underneath him and got up again.
On her feet, reeling with pain, her vision slanted drunkenly. She braced her hands against the wall to keep her balance.
Gotta get to my baby. .
Pulling in snatches of air, she ran down the hallway, bare feet slapping across the floor.
She rounded the corner. The staircase was ahead, near the end of the main hallway.
Jada was shouting at someone. Who else was in their home? In God’s name, who?
Mama’s coming, baby. .
As she grabbed the handrail and mounted the steps, a large object crashed into the back of her head, and her eyes exploded with brightness.
She fell forward against the stairs, and whatever had struck her shattered on the floor behind her. In her hazy peripheral vision, she glimpsed shards of a brightly colored item.
A vase. Leon had thrown a vase at her.
Her head burned as if molten lava had been poured atop her skull. Her jaw was swelling from when he had slapped her.
But she wasn’t going to let anything stop her.
Groaning and weeping, she clutched a baluster, and started to hoist herself to her feet.
Leon came around the corner. This time, he had a handgun.
He aimed the muzzle at her head.
She froze, staring into the dark bore of the pistol. It looked huge enough to launch a rocket.
“I. . I only want to. . help my baby,” she said in a raw voice.
Although his face was red with scars and he was out of breath, Leon had the audacity to smirk at her. With casual dexterity, he flipped the gun to his other hand, drawing her gaze along with it like a pin to a magnet-and suddenly hammered his free hand into her solar plexus, a punch that felt like a spear boring through her midsection.
She buckled over on the steps. Her mouth gaped open to scream, but only a dry rasp of pain came out.
“That’s. . for fighting back, bitch,” he said, chest heaving. “I’m not wasting any more. . time with you. . get up and make yourself presentable. . time to hit the trail.”
15
At the office, Corey sat at his computer, sipping coffee and searching on Google for information about guns.
He had brought his revolver to work with him. The gun was tucked inside the waist holster, hidden by his button-down shirt. He had a concealed carry permit, but except for the occasional visit to a firing range, he’d never taken the weapon out of the house.
Driving to work that morning, he’d decided that he was going to purchase another firearm, too. Perhaps two or three more. One to keep at home. One to keep in his car. One to keep in his desk drawer at work. One to keep on his person at all times.
His family was too precious for him to do anything less. He needed to be prepared for anything, anywhere, at anytime.
If Leon dared to show up again, he’d have something for him.
His desktop phone jangled. Caller ID showed his home number.
For no reason at all, an iron clamp of anxiety snapped across his chest. Somehow, he knew that something terrible had happened at home.
He hesitated for a beat, and picked up the phone.
“Hello?” he said.
“You’re a pupil of Ben Franklin, huh, home boy? Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.”
Leon’s voice blew through Corey like an icy breeze. He squeezed the handset, knuckles popping.
“Leon? What the hell-”
“I think you better come to the domicile with the quickness,” Leon said.
“-are you doing, you-”
“I think your beautiful wifey and your cute little munchkin need you.”
“-bastard, I’ll-”
“I think you better not make me wait too long. Au revoir.”
The dial tone drilled into Corey’s brain. Heart booming, he stared at the handset as if it were a viper.
Then he slammed it onto the cradle and ran like hell out of the office.
16
Speeding home, he used his BlackBerry to ring Simone’s cell, got no answer, dialed her office number, but got no answer there, either. He called home again, too, to no avail-the line rang and rang until voice mail picked up.
He desperately wanted to believe that Leon was playing a cruel joke on him, that he’d jerry-rigged their home landline somehow to make it only appear that he’d phoned him from their house. But his failure to reach Simone proved that this was really happening. Whatever this turned out to be.
God help me, if he hurts either Simone or Jada, I’ll kill him, I really will.
A few minutes later, he veered into the driveway with a squeal of tires.
There were no cars parked in the driveway or in front of the house. The only vehicle within a block’s radius was a white Ford van with an HVAC company’s name painted on the side.
He didn’t know what Leon was doing, but he thought it important to pay attention to everything. Every detail might prove meaningful later.
He got out of the car. Yesterday’s summer weather had abandoned them. The sky was the color of faded pewter, and there was an unseasonably raw bite in the air.
Drawing his gun from the holster, he approached the front door. There were no marks of forced entry on the door frame, and all of the windows were intact.
He twisted the knob. It was unlocked. Using his foot, he nudged the door open and crossed the threshold.
He didn’t see anyone. He heard the whispery hum of the air conditioner. But he heard no voices.
The house felt empty, too.
“Is anyone here?” he called out.
No answer.
Gun pointed skyward, finger on the trigger guard, he moved down the hallway.
At the corner, at the foot of the staircase, a vase lay shattered in a dozen pieces, a wedding gift from Simone’s aunt.
Fear squeezed his throat. What the hell had happened?
He ran to the interior garage door and flung it open. Simone’s SUV was parked inside, in its usual spot.
No, he thought, as a terrifying possibility began to brew in his mind.
He dashed to the master bedroom. The bed was in disarray. A couple of dresser drawers had been pulled open, and random pieces of clothing dangled from their edges and lay on the floor. Simone’s clothes. As if she had packed in a hurry.
Jesus, no. Nausea wormed through him.
He ran upstairs, taking the risers three at a time. He rushed headlong into Jada’s room.
Empty. The sheets on her bed were in chaos, too.
Mickey the bird lay dead on the floor in a heap of feathers, beady eyes fixed on oblivion.
He shook his head. No, no, no.
Jada’s speech processor lay on the nightstand.
No, God, not my little girl.
A scream boiled at the pit of his throat, and it was only through sheer willpower that he kept a lid on it. If he let the scream escape, he feared he would never stop, and he had to hold it together. He couldn’t fold. Couldn’t break.
The lives of his wife and daughter might depend on him.
Nearly tripping over his feet, he sprinted out of the room, into the hallway.
“Is anyone here?” he shouted hoarsely.
Hollow silence answered him.