contents. Pens whose potential as daggers Sandy only now realized; a small blade contained in the blue plastic housing of a crayon sharpener.
She was going to be left without so much as a toothpick for a weapon.
Sandy looked across the room to Ben, still lying on the floor, and her heart twisted. She could see the rise and fall of her husband’s back. He was alive.
The pyramid of wood he’d stacked earlier had been taken apart.
The big man dragged a fistful of logs and his sack full of kitchen contraband across the floor. The load was cumbersome even for him; all the bits and pieces, the many objects that made up their lives.
The big man headed to the sliding glass doors. He elbowed them open as if they’d been greased, doors weighty enough that Sandy and Ivy always fought with them. Harlan heaved everything out into the yard, far enough away that the pieces couldn’t be heard when they came down. Sandy tried to envision their distant destination. She had loved all the space upon moving up here; now she feared and loathed it.
“Does your husband have a gun?” the man with the lightless eyes asked. He was breathing easier now, color returning to his face.
She’d actually forgotten him for a moment, so focused had she been on the dismantling of the kitchen. It used to be an ability Sandy was grateful for: the laser pinpoint she could apply with her mind, while other parts broke and splintered off, never to be looked at again. Now that tendency had nearly made her miss something essential.
“What?” she said.
“Sure he does.” The man looked down and Sandy twisted away from him in the chair. “Where is it?”
A belch of bile rose, burning, in Sandy’s throat as options skittered through her mind. Could she come up with something to throw the man off, preserving the guns for later use? Simple refutation maybe, the ostrich-like denial of a five-year-old? No, sorry, we don’t own a gun. But it wasn’t as if things would stop there, her word for it simply taken. Perhaps she could send the man on a wild goose chase, someplace far away from Ivy. Give Ben a chance to come to—and come up with something.
She looked up, daring the dark pits of the man’s eyes, and saw in them patience, and just the slightest shading of mirth. As if he was utterly certain that she would tell him whatever he wanted to know.
The prospect of defying him suffused her with a never-before-felt warmth.
And suddenly it occurred to Sandy how she could accomplish two things. Create a needed delay and save her husband by placing a value on his life.
—
“The guns are in a safe down in the basement,” Sandy said. “But it’s kept locked. And I don’t know the combination.”
“Guns,” the man said. “Plural. Well, well. You country folk are well armed.”
Sandy didn’t respond.
“In a safe in the basement,” the man went on, gazing down at her. “And unfortunately you can’t open it.” He paused. “So near and yet so far.”
Sandy held his stare. It took all the strength she had to do it.
“I’m surprised,” the man added, “that it wouldn’t have occurred to you that one day you might need to shoot someone.”
Sandy’s gaze trembled and finally fell. She stared off at the stripped-bare kitchen, cabinet doors opening onto empty shelves, drawers lolling out like tongues. Taunting her with everything she’d had, and lost. Or everything she’d never really had at all.
“It’s your husband who knows how to get at them,” the man said, in that musing tone.
Sandy forced a nod.
The man crouched before her, so close she could see bits of beard growing underneath the pale skin on his jaw. They matched the stubble across his scalp. “Was that a
yes
?”
Sandy nodded again. When the man didn’t move away, she said it out loud. “Yes.”
He duplicated her nod. “Well, that only leaves me a couple of options.” He twisted behind him to where the big man stood, absolutely still, casting a shadow across the
She was going to be left without so much as a toothpick for a weapon.
Sandy looked across the room to Ben, still lying on the floor, and her heart twisted. She could see the rise and fall of her husband’s back. He was alive.
The pyramid of wood he’d stacked earlier had been taken apart.
The big man dragged a fistful of logs and his sack full of kitchen contraband across the floor. The load was cumbersome even for him; all the bits and pieces, the many objects that made up their lives.
The big man headed to the sliding glass doors. He elbowed them open as if they’d been greased, doors weighty enough that Sandy and Ivy always fought with them. Harlan heaved everything out into the yard, far enough away that the pieces couldn’t be heard when they came down. Sandy tried to envision their distant destination. She had loved all the space upon moving up here; now she feared and loathed it.
“Does your husband have a gun?” the man with the lightless eyes asked. He was breathing easier now, color returning to his face.
She’d actually forgotten him for a moment, so focused had she been on the dismantling of the kitchen. It used to be an ability Sandy was grateful for: the laser pinpoint she could apply with her mind, while other parts broke and splintered off, never to be looked at again. Now that tendency had nearly made her miss something essential.
“What?” she said.
“Sure he does.” The man looked down and Sandy twisted away from him in the chair. “Where is it?”
A belch of bile rose, burning, in Sandy’s throat as options skittered through her mind. Could she come up with something to throw the man off, preserving the guns for later use? Simple refutation maybe, the ostrich-like denial of a five-year-old? No, sorry, we don’t own a gun. But it wasn’t as if things would stop there, her word for it simply taken. Perhaps she could send the man on a wild goose chase, someplace far away from Ivy. Give Ben a chance to come to—and come up with something.
She looked up, daring the dark pits of the man’s eyes, and saw in them patience, and just the slightest shading of mirth. As if he was utterly certain that she would tell him whatever he wanted to know.
The prospect of defying him suffused her with a never-before-felt warmth.
And suddenly it occurred to Sandy how she could accomplish two things. Create a needed delay and save her husband by placing a value on his life.
—
“The guns are in a safe down in the basement,” Sandy said. “But it’s kept locked. And I don’t know the combination.”
“Guns,” the man said. “Plural. Well, well. You country folk are well armed.”
Sandy didn’t respond.
“In a safe in the basement,” the man went on, gazing down at her. “And unfortunately you can’t open it.” He paused. “So near and yet so far.”
Sandy held his stare. It took all the strength she had to do it.
“I’m surprised,” the man added, “that it wouldn’t have occurred to you that one day you might need to shoot someone.”
Sandy’s gaze trembled and finally fell. She stared off at the stripped-bare kitchen, cabinet doors opening onto empty shelves, drawers lolling out like tongues. Taunting her with everything she’d had, and lost. Or everything she’d never really had at all.
“It’s your husband who knows how to get at them,” the man said, in that musing tone.
Sandy forced a nod.
The man crouched before her, so close she could see bits of beard growing underneath the pale skin on his jaw. They matched the stubble across his scalp. “Was that a
yes
?”
Sandy nodded again. When the man didn’t move away, she said it out loud. “Yes.”
He duplicated her nod. “Well, that only leaves me a couple of options.” He twisted behind him to where the big man stood, absolutely still, casting a shadow across the
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