The Takedown

Chapter 9

9

An hour and a half later, in the kitchen, there’s a tall, tattooed man eating our cereal. On his left hand is an ink-red skull; on his right, the Powerpuff Girls. All across his arms and his throat, the motif alternates: death insignia, cartoons, death insignia, cartoons. “Hey,” he says to me, perfectly casual, barely breaking his trance. He’s picking the tiny marshmallows meticulously out of his Lucky Charms—with his fingers. There’s a miniature pile by the bowl.

“Were you going to eat this?” he asks, finally looking up, grabbing the cereal box, shaking it.

“Oh, no, all yours.” I stare at him over the kitchen table. “I’m sorry, you are?”

I know who he is. He’s Sal, one of Johnny’s men. Sal, come to check in on Nick. He arrived almost soundlessly through our garage and is occupying himself while Nick naps. On his wrist, Bugs Bunny is hanging out with a grenade.

“Sal,” he says. One word only.

“Cool,” I say, zipping up my parka—and trailing outside. Gail has just sent me an encrypted text. It just says, Call me .

Alone in the Prius, I massage the space between my eyes with my thumb. “Sal’s in my kitchen,” I say when Gail picks up.

Her voice cracks over the line. “I see that... Well, I’ll get straight to the point. I’ve located the owner of the Mid-Coast Maine phone number. His name’s Boyd Winters.”

“Okay, who’s that?”

“No idea.”

“What do you mean, no idea?”

Gail tuts. “Just what I said, Sydney. The guy is nobody. Runs a small gift shop that sells candles and bric-a-brac. Lobster magnets, things of that nature. No FBI profile whatsoever. Law-abiding citizen. Unless Johnny’s planning on robbing his collection of dried starfish, I’m not sure how he fits into any of this. I was hoping he was a distant cousin of yours, someone Johnny’s inviting to the wedding.”

I check out the Prius’s window. From this angle, I can see the back of Sal’s head in my kitchen. “Not the case.”

“Well, drat.” Gail pauses. “Just keep listening for the name. I’ll send one of my trusted associates up to scope out the place, see if our friend Boyd is hiding anything. I got your text about your Christmas Day theory as well. Pushes our timeline up a bit.”

My tongue runs over my teeth. “I’m thinking we should feel out the Calla angle a little more. If the timeline’s changed, this could help speed things—”

“Sydney.” Gail is clipped. “How many times do I have to say it? This investigation is too important to compromise in any way.”

“Yeah, I know that,” I say, just as clipped. I haven’t forgotten about the fifty pounds of C4, waiting in the wings. “But if she is innocent, shouldn’t we try to find that out, too? Wouldn’t it give us a fuller picture? I’m not saying that we have to tell her. I just think—”

“You’re not thinking. Focus on Nick. You’re making progress with Nick. Bring him to the pageant tonight.”

In all the chaos, I’d forgotten about the Cape Hathaway Christmas Pageant. It’s a costume party meets theatrical play put on by the local elementary school. I’m not sure there’s been a single year in Grandma Ruby’s whole life that she’s missed the fun. She plays the piano for the kids and gets very into it, sometimes kicking back the piano bench and dancing by the keys.

“Isn’t that one of your family traditions?” Gail asks, filling in the blanks. “I’ve done my research. Plus, I heard your grandmother boasting to Calla that she got you both great seats this year.”

“Wait.” I frown. “I thought the pageant wasn’t until Christmas Eve. It’s always on Christmas Eve.”

“Things change,” Gail retorts in the understatement of the season.

“Even so, I’m not sure Nick’s going to be able to leave the couch for a while. He’s down for the count.”

“Give him some Advil,” Gail says. “He’ll recover.”

“He actually fell down pretty hard—” I start to argue, but the line has already disconnected.

Back in the house, Sal has migrated to the couch and is watching a Hallmark movie with Nick; they’re like two peas in a pod. Around the same height, around the same build. Maybe Sal fits the profile for the New York heist even better than Nick? Either way, I slap down a bottle of industrial-strength Advil on the coffee table, then join my sister at the kitchen sink, where she’s washing dishes.

I can’t tell Calla about Johnny, but I can at least talk with her.

I offer to dry the cookie sheets.

“That would be great, thanks,” she says with a big smile. Her sweater has polka dots on it, just like my high school robe, and I vow to stop her if she starts to say anything even remotely incriminating in this kitchen. I imagine Gail in a windowless van, somewhere outside of town, listening. “Sorry I’ve been so all over the place,” Calla says. “I feel like the wedding has kind of eaten my brain.”

“Ah, no worries,” I say, grabbing a clean dishcloth. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you, is the rehearsal dinner the first time you’re meeting Johnny’s family, or...?”

Calla picks at a piece of burnt sugar with her thumbnail. “No, I’ve met them. They’re nice. Mom’s a little strict. Nick calls her ‘the Eagle.’?”

“The Eagle. Why the Eagle?”

“Mmm...” Calla stops picking, considering this. “She just looks like an eagle. Maybe it’s the eyes. Picture Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada. ”

“What about his dad?” I ask. A text notification dings in my back pocket. Probably from Gail, telling me to back off.

Calla wavers, head tilting back and forth. “His dad is... like Johnny, I guess. He can come off a bit harsh sometimes, but underneath it, he’s a real softie.”

Oh, is he? To put this in perspective, besides “the Coffee King,” his dad’s nickname is “Bootsie.” He likes to break people’s ribs with his boots. “How many times have you met them?”

“Not too many,” Calla says, shrugging, “but don’t worry. They’re really going to bring me into the family.”

My stomach sours like custard in the heat. That response, it doesn’t even sound like Calla. It’s like she’s parroting words straight from Johnny’s mouth.

Another text chimes furiously in my pocket.

“And you want that,” I say to Calla, hoping she’ll read between the lines. “The whole ‘you take this man and his family’ thing.”

“Of course I do.”

My phone starts angrily screaming with a call. I silence it. “Because you really are taking him. You’re taking him everywhere. He’s attached to you.”

Calla frowns. “Thank you for explaining the concept of marriage to me, Sydney.”

“He’s just... not who I pictured you with.”

“I know,” Calla says firmly, “that’s why he’s a good match. He’s not like anyone I’ve ever dated. I did that on purpose. You know that saying that the definition of insanity is trying the same thing over and over again and expecting different results? I was tired of expecting different results, so I tried a different type of person... Johnny isn’t the quiet, sit-at-home kind of guy. We go out, and we have fun, and he’s really the life of the party—and that feels nice to be around, you know? He pushes me, too. Which, I’ll admit, sometimes I don’t like, but overall I think it’s good for me. I went jogging this morning.”

She says the last part in a whisper, like it’s a secret.

“I know,” I say. “I know you did.”

“And he’s dependable. He always shows up when he says he’s going to, and no matter what he does or doesn’t do, I get this feeling like... like he’s not going to leave me, okay?” Before I have time to process that, she hits me with: “He wants to get to know you, too. Johnny likes you, so please... try a little harder.”

She has no idea how hard I’m trying. “I just think—”

Now the landline begins to ring. I didn’t even know we had a landline anymore. What year is it? Nineteen eighty-two? Swiveling around, I reach next to the fridge, pick up the receiver, and clack it down again.

Calla throws me a judgmental look. “Did you just hang up on that person?”

“They called earlier,” I say. “Telemarketer. Wanted to sell us roofing supplies.”

“Oh, you should actually call them back,” Calla says, pointing at the phone. “Grandma Ruby needs new gutters.” Her back is still rigid from our previous strain of conversation. “Anyway, I know what I’m doing, okay? It wasn’t an accident that I was in that pottery class. I was really trying to do something different. It was between that, a cooking seminar, and a self-defense workshop, but the other classes were all booked up by the time I got around to it. So, fate.”

Plunking down the final pan on the counter, I turn to Calla. “I could teach you.”

She eyes me suspiciously. “You want to teach me how to cook? Sydney, you can’t even make eggs.”

“No, self-defense. I took a class last year—” Half-truth . Momentum surges through me. “Here, stand by the table. I’m going to pretend to choke you.”

“Oh my god, Sydney.”

Maybe I’ve come out of the gates a little too strong. “It’ll be worth it, I promise. Please?”

Eyes hard, Calla drops her sponge, shuffling over to the empty space by the table. “This is not what normal families do. I’m just telling you that right now.”

Not a normal family , I think. Not anymore. My fingers slip gently around her neck. “Okay, so, grab my hands and try to pry me off of you. If that doesn’t work, try to push me.”

Calla does, her fingers at my fingers, her palms thrusting against me.

“Harder,” I say, and she tries again, feet slipping and sliding, teeth gritted this time. I barely budge. “See? That’s what most people do, and neither of those work. You have to raise both of your arms all the way above your head—good, that’s it. Twist to the side and chop my arms with your elbows. Nice! Okay.” Standing in front of her, I clap my hands, my feet positioned shoulder-width apart. “Now try to punch me as hard as you can in the throat.”

Calla scoffs, almost laughing. “I’m not going to punch you in the throat! It’s Christmas .” She pinches her eyebrows together. “Also, I would never punch you in the throat? Even if it wasn’t a holiday? Jeez, what’s gotten into you?”

I squirm. “I’m just trying to make sure you’re... safe.”

“Well, I can take care of myself. I’ve been doing it for years.” The way she bites off the last few words, I can tell that something else is coming. Something I might not want to hear. She faces me, shoulders back, and actually does punch me in the throat. Just, you know, emotionally. “I think I might ask Dad to come to the wedding.”

I blink at her, not processing, an image of Dad erupting: him, Saturday morning donut run at the gas station, snow; he points into the case and asks which one I want. Eating together on the frozen picnic tables at the edge of our neighborhood. And later, in summer, at the Cape Hathaway Huskies game, his face beaming in the stands. “I’m sorry, what?”

Calla pushes out a rush of words. “I hired a private investigator to find him, and they did. He’s at a long-term campground now, just outside of Burlington, Vermont, and it’s... it’s tradition. Dads walk their daughters down the aisle, and he—”

My head’s fuzzing. “Wait, slow down. You actually talked to him?”

“No,” she says quietly. “No, not yet. I just found him. So he’s there. And Burlington’s not that far away. I know it’s a really long shot, but maybe if I just let him know that I’m getting married, he’d want to come.”

What Calla’s just said... I’m not sure I can handle on top of everything else. It’s un-handleable. And it’s a bad, bad idea. Calling our father? Our father, who hasn’t called us in a decade? What makes her think he’d even answer the phone, much less walk her down the aisle? He’d only disappoint her, hurt her, hurt her more . There’s a burst of pain in my chest, and I poke at it, scratch at it, tell her, “You can’t just... fucking... drive out of someone’s life, not say a single word to them, leave them, and... No. No.” Our father is just another person who will fail to live up to Calla’s optimism. I’m shaking my head, pulse in my throat, trying to keep my voice from carrying to the living room. “It’s not worth it, Calla. Don’t put yourself through that.”

Calla chews her bottom lip. “I know you’ve always hated him since—”

“I haven’t hated him,” I argue.

“Hated him, resented him, I don’t really know. But it’s been a long time, and it was terrible what he did, but I’ve been thinking about it a lot and maybe we shouldn’t have assumed the worst about him. Maybe it’s time to start letting go of what happened, Syd. Both of us. It seems like you still have trouble trusting people...”

“Well, maybe you should trust people a little less!” I burst out as the landline rings off the hook for a final time. I pick it up and tell Gail, “We don’t want what you’re selling!”

“Oh,” says a man on the other line. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

I cringe. “No, wait—I thought...”

But he’s already disconnected.

Calla hangs up the dishtowels in a neat little line before retreating upstairs. “I won’t call him, okay? If it’s going to make you that stressed. Case closed.”

“Wait, Calla...”

She holds up a hand. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. I’ll just... see you at the pageant tonight.”

—

A couple hours later, it’s still eating away at me. The possibility of Dad waltzing into our house again, a decade of dirt on his shoes, to walk my little sister down the aisle. At her wedding. To a crime lord.

Won’t happen.

“You look deep in thought,” Nick says, nudging my shoulder with his.

“Are you sure you shouldn’t be lying down?” I volley back. He shouldn’t even be off the couch. He shouldn’t be willing to sit through this long, long pageant in a stiff auditorium seat—but Nick was the one who insisted he should come.

His jaw clamps and unclamps, probably gritting down the pain. “And miss the Cape Hathaway Christmas Pageant? Never.”

Together with Calla, Grandma Ruby, Johnny, and Powerpuff-Girls-tattoo Sal, we’re waiting outside the elementary school auditorium as people file into the entryway. Johnny’s acting jittery. Pre-wedding stress? Or pre-heist stress? Behind me, his teeth grind, and he’s firing off texts that I know Gail is monitoring. I’m watching him in the corner of my vision as, inside, we duck under construction paper Christmas trees and strings of popcorn hanging from the ceiling. Somewhere down that hallway—that one, right there—are my third-grade handprints. I still have a ribbon in the trophy cabinet by the principal’s office: first place, district spelling bee . Dad won the same thing, when he was a kid in this town, and I—

Shut it down, Sydney. I’m not thinking about him. It’s over.

“Were we supposed to dress up?” Nick asks, even though he’s dressed just fine. Black blazer. Festive tie that Grandma Ruby found in the depths of her closet, insisting Nick should take the “Christmas pineapple” tie for a spin. I seriously hate to say it, but if Nick can pull off that pattern, he can pull off anything.

“Don’t worry,” I reassure him, playing my role again. A few elementary-age kids rush past. “If you ever make it back to Cape Hathaway, you can be a... green bean casserole or something.” The best thing about this pageant is that every kid—whether they’re in the play or not—is encouraged to dress up. Kudos go to the kid who’s decorated himself as a Christmas ham, complete with circular pineapple halo. (Have I missed the memo about Christmas pineapples?) A girl in a goose costume flaps and honks past me, hot on the heels of a Rudolph. His nose twinkles under the hallway lights.

“With the crunchy onions?” Nick asks, catching my eye.

There’s too much warmth in his glance. Good for the assignment, but... I don’t like it. “Whatever you want.” I slap the tickets in my palm. “Should we find our seats?”

What I’ll never tell Nick is that I have a long history with this play. Seven years in a row, I was the donkey. Or rather, Donkey. I only added the “the” for gravitas and emphasis. Donkey has no lines, traditionally speaking, just some carefully timed eeee-aaww s at theatrically appropriate moments.

Off to my left, a buzz sounds in Johnny’s pocket, and he curses under his breath. “I’m sorry,” he says, shaking his head and unsheathing the phone from his jacket. “I have to take this. What time does it start?”

“Eleven minutes,” says Grandma Ruby, wiggling her fingers. “Time to warm up the old piano hands!”

“Break a leg, Grandma,” I tell her absentmindedly, eyes trailing Johnny down the hallway; Sal shadows him like a ghost—and I already know I’m going to follow them both.

Grandma Ruby throws me a pointed look. “Never say that to a person over eighty, dear.” Then she saunters off with all the youthfulness of a spring dove, her red velvet skirt rippling behind her.

The auditorium is packed. Kids, parents, and the other 79 percent of Cape Hathaway’s population are settling into their seats. “Should we?” asks Nick, gesturing for Calla and me to go down Aisle 11B first. Scattered caramel corn is already littering the floor; the pageant is serving snacks this year. And eggnog. Spiked eggnog, I think, for the adults. Smells like it. Every once in a while, I catch a faint whiff of booze.

“You know what?” I say, conscious that I’m losing precious time. “I’m just going to pop to the bathroom before the play starts. Don’t want to miss a minute of the action.”

“Hurry back,” Calla says, a little muted after our squabble in the kitchen. “The beginning’s the best part.”

I nod, feeling Nick’s eyes on my face, then weave through the crowd in the opposite direction, ears trained for Johnny’s voice. He isn’t in the main hallway. I duck into a few classrooms on the east side of the building. Not there, either. Finally, through one of the circular hallway windows—painted into the shape of a sun—I spot Johnny in the parking lot, pacing like a bobcat, cell phone glued to his ear. Chunky snowflakes whip sideways, biting his face. What kind of phone call is so secret that you have to take it outside in a soon-to-be snowstorm?

I know exactly what type of phone call. That was a rhetorical question.

Every ten seconds or so, one of Johnny’s hands chops through the air. Sal’s standing with his arms crossed, shoulders puffed, keeping watch.

If I can sneak by the flagpole, into that sea of minivans, I should be able to inch up to them... Hear what’s Johnny’s saying. The virus will pick up on who he’s calling, but not what’s being said.

Parka hood up, obscuring my blond shock of hair, I slink out the lobby doors, footsteps hushed in the snow. Except for Johnny’s voice, it’s deadly quiet. But I can match the silence. The trick is to maintain a fair amount of distance, just close enough to pick up the words, and—ideally—match your footsteps with the target’s. I step directly in Johnny’s tracks; his boots are at least three sizes bigger than mine.

“I thought you said it was...” he says, obviously struggling to keep his voice down. The wind kicks up, swallowing the rest of the sentence. I use the sudden noise barrier to pick up my pace, staying ducked. When I’m less than thirty feet away, back against a tinted minivan window, I listen over the vehicle, neck craned, pulse rising in my wrists.

Johnny’s biting out words. “The van... Yeah, the van...” A few rattled phrases follow. “Make sure everything’s ready... Well, time’s fucking running out, isn’t it? Just get it done ... Couple of days...” Then he abruptly stops.

I hear Sal shuffling forward, maybe placing a hand on Johnny’s shoulder. “Boss,” he says. “Did you hear that?”

My blood runs cold. Slowly, soundlessly, I curl a mittened hand over my mouth. Stop any of my breath from fogging in the air.

“Hear what?” Johnny says, annoyed, clearly done with his call.

As noiselessly as possible, I lower to my knees, prepared to roll under the minivan if needed. Adrenaline pumps so hard through my veins, my right temple is throbbing.

Sal pauses, shuffles. “Maybe nothing. Maybe...”

Johnny’s dismissive. “Let’s just get back inside. Calla will kill me if I miss this thing. Can’t stand to see that girl upset.”

Mitten still shrouding my mouth, I remain crouched, watching their feet under the minivans as they trail back inside. Faster than Santa’s sleigh, I whip out my own phone and speed a text in Gail’s direction: Johnny phone call 7:06 pm, who was it to? Mention of a van. Next heist... highway robbery? Any bank planning a large monetary transport on Christmas Day? With any luck, Gail will look into it immediately.

I’m feeling lucky. Lucky that Sal didn’t pursue his instincts. Lucky that I’ve snagged an actionable bit of intel. This mission is heading in the right direction, even with Nick.

I can’t follow them into the lobby—too suspicious—so I slink around the back of the elementary school, pry open a classroom window with my house key, and climb in that way. Undetected. Ripping off my mittens and my coat. Until I do reach the lobby, where—

“Oh, thank heavens!” Grandma Ruby says, rushing up to me. She really is fast for eighty-two. Her face is flushed pink. “Sydney, there you are. We have an emergency!”

A lump surges into my throat, thinking of Calla. “What kind of emergency? Is anyone hurt?”

“No, no, don’t be silly. No one’s hurt.” Grandma Ruby pauses in front of me and clasps my hands in hers, tucking them to her chest. “Donkey is missing.”

My eyes squint. “Like, the costume?”

“No, the person. The child.”

“There’s a missing child?” Shit , this is an actual emergency. “When was the last time anyone saw them? Has anyone contacted the police?”

Grandma Ruby presses her lips together. “Maybe I’m not explaining this right. Delilah Hannigan went on vacation to Calgary with her parents and everyone forgot to contact us. She’s been coming to rehearsals, so no one knew! No one thought twice!” Grandma Ruby levels me with a glance, squeezing both of my hands in unison. “The play needs you, Sydney.”

The pieces fall together in a horrible clash. “Oh, Grandma, no...”

“There aren’t any lines, pumpkin! You know that! And the costume has always been roomy. Just two and a half hours of your time. That’s all we’re talking. You were so good at it.”

“But—”

“Sydney, you were born to play this part. I knew that from the first moment you stepped foot onstage, when you were eleven years old, just as I knew you had my whole heart the moment you were born. At Cape Hathaway General Hospital. You were seven pounds exactly, with a thick head of hair. The nurse passed you to me, my first grandchild, and I looked into your eyes, and I said, ‘Hello there, little bean.’ It was like you stared right back into my soul.”

Love with a side of not-so-subtle manipulation. Grandma Ruby is laying it on thick. She squeezes my hands again, and it’s such a familiar movement—the hands I remember, the familial warmth I remember. This is the person who read me adventure novels when I couldn’t sleep, who stepped up and raised me and Calla when there was no one , and—

I let out a sigh through my nose. “Where’s the costume?”

—

I’d forgotten. I’d blocked it out. This costume is so atrocious, a picture of me inside it might effectively serve as blackmail. Backstage, in front of the floor-length mirror, I stick out one of the donkey legs to the side and drag a hand (or rather, a front hoof) up the fabric. Yep. This’ll do it. One look at me and Sidekick Nick will tell me any secret he has. Who could resist a woman in a tattered gray onesie with floppy ears and a felt tail? The costume fits, but barely. Ironically, it is fairly tight in the ass region. All I have to do is stand stick straight for every one of my scenes, and the fabric won’t rip.

“Places!” the director shouts behind the scenes. “Everyone, places!”

Lips vibrating with a sigh, I tell myself it’s just a short period of time—then it’s back to business. Who did Johnny call? What van is he referencing? One he’s rented, or one he’s attacking? My mind ticks over his conversation as I line up next to a blond-headed boy approximately half my height. The kid is staring at me with a mixture of awe and bewilderment, like I might actually be a donkey.

“You’re a grown-up.” He has a voice that’s surprisingly assured—and bitter—for his age. His tiny foot stamps. He’s dressed as a crab. “This play is for kids!”

I lean over, hands on Donkey’s knees. “Do you have a grandma?”

“Yeah?”

“ That’s why I’m here.”

He looks puzzled by this turn of events (what’s his grandma got to do with it?), but the music has already started with a peppy rush. On the other side of the velvet curtains, Grandma Ruby is pounding the baby grand piano keys. Her Christmas tune is more rock concert than elementary school hymn. It’s the type of song that makes you want to rip your wig off.

Well, here we go.

When the curtain rises, everything is black, but soon the auditorium explodes into Technicolor. You’d think we were performing that play about a dreamcoat. Under the haze of flashing, multicolored lights, I zigzag my way around the giant cardboard boxes—wrapped like presents in silver paper—and file behind my friend the crab. This play truly makes no sense. As a kid, I rolled with the various inconsistencies and the comingling of disparate species. As an adult, I question its plot. Or its lack of plot. The play is—roughly—about a lamb who is traveling across a magical land around Christmastime; she meets a variety of animals who teach her about holiday joy. I don’t know who wrote it. Someone high. There is no true middle and no true end. But there are snow machines. To the audience’s delight, they burst now, spraying us with lumpy, white dust. I spit out a tiny chunk when some lands in my mouth.

Has Calla noticed me onstage yet? Has Nick? Are Sal and Johnny back in their seats? The lights have blacked out the audience. I can’t see a thing, and— Oh, sweet Jesus , we’re dancing. Since when is there a choreographed dance? Grandma!

As far as I can tell, it is a simple one-two step, so I follow crab boy’s foot pattern, squinting into the auditorium. There’s movement in the middle row. Someone’s switching seats. Or getting up from their seat? When the golden lights flash over the audience, I see him more clearly: a middle-aged man in a Santa hat, swaying into the aisle. One of the kids’ parents , I think. But he’s acting kind of... strange.

As a CIA officer, I’m trained for the unexpected. Yet, when Santa man starts stomping toward the stage, an openly determined gaze in his holly jolly eyes, a little voice inside me still says: What the fuck? He looks smug, too absolutely sure he’s about to get away with whatever is about to happen. He’s already passing Grandma Ruby at the piano.

A sick feeling starts in my belly, climbs its way up my throat. Is this man an actual threat? Or is he just reliving the glory days of elementary school, hopped up on way too much eggnog? I’m not sure, I’m just not. Murmurs erupt from a few people in the audience, spiking above the piano song. Is this part of the act? Is Santa supposed to rush the stage?

And the kids... God, the kids. All twenty of them are so merry, so dedicated to their roles, they haven’t even clocked the intruder. They’re like I was. Innocent. Unaware that anything could go wrong in the world.

“Let me up!” the man yells, throwing one leg over the stage, attempting to lift himself onto the platform. He has the grace of, well, a forty-year-old drunk guy in half a Santa costume—but that doesn’t make him any less dangerous. Any less unhinged. Is he armed?

“Hey!” I shout back at him, advancing past the cardboard Christmas tree. My boots thwack against the wooden floor, fear bubbling under my skin. “Get down!”

If he can get off the stage, slip back into the audience, maybe this’ll all be fine. Maybe I won’t have to do anything drastic...

But he’s standing up now, wobbling at the edge of the platform. He mumbles something that sounds like “potatoes,” followed by a much louder, “YOU CAN’T STOP ME, DONKEY!”

And there’s a second when I think to myself, No . No, this cannot be fucking happening . Gail and I have a new lead on the case; things are progressing with Nick; there’ve been a few hiccups, yes, but nothing major. Nothing that would put me or the case in serious jeopardy. And now...

I’m five feet away from the man, the stench of alcohol wafting from his breath—and he charges. He’s charging. Charging at me? Charging at the kids? The kids .

My throat hitches, because I want to cry, and scream, and I—

Cannot break my cover this way.

I also have no choice.

Blood rushes to my face, protective mode takes over, and I lurch forward, headbutting the man straight in the nose. Gasps from the audience and shrieks from the kids follow a not-so-gentle crunch.

“Son of a—” the guy says, stumbling back, pure shock crossing his face. Shock turns to anger turns to “ bitch .” His right arm shoots out, aiming to grip me around the throat, but he is way too slow for my reflexes. I dodge him, grabbing his arm midair, and in one smooth motion, flip him directly over my shoulder. He lands with a tremendous thud on the stage, groaning about a bill from his chiropractor, and—

The song’s over. Everyone’s on their feet, staring, gaping.

I have never felt so exposed in my life.