Max waited till Annabel’s breathing settled into a deep, regular rhythm before getting out of bed. Taking a handful of prescription pills from the bathroom cabinet, he swallowed, splashing his face with cold water. His reflection in the mirror looked ghostly.
I have to get it together before tomorrow’s board meeting. August Sandford’s out to get me. One sign of weakness and he’ll move in for the kill.
It was Sandford who’d demanded tomorrow’s emergency session. From the start, he had been a vocal opponent of Max’s strategy to abandon foreign real estate and focus exclusively on the U.S. market. August wanted Kruger-Brent to follow Templeton’s lead. Eve wouldn’t hear of it.
“You’re not Lexi’s puppy, Max. Kruger-Brent leads, it doesn’t follow.”
Hundreds of millions had been wiped off the firm’s balance sheet as a result. Now the board wanted answers.
Tiptoeing into the nursery, Max gazed in wonder at his sleeping boys. George and Edward were almost three now. They were so perfect, sometimes Max felt scared to touch them. Tiny, male replicas of Annabel, blond and sturdy and sweet.
“Darling. It’s four in the morning.” Annabel stood in the doorway, yawning. “For heaven’s sake, come back to bed.”
“Coming. Sorry.”
Max followed her into the bedroom.
I wonder if my father ever looked at me while I slept?
I wonder if he loved me, like I love those boys?
The dreams began again.
Tara McGregor giggled to herself as she put the children’s cake mixture into the oven. Ridiculous! I’m behaving like a sixteen-year-old. But her happiness refused to be contained.
Gabe was coming home early this afternoon. It was his birthday. The kids had baked him a cake and made homemade presents from toilet paper, glitter and glue. Jamie opted for a magnificent rocket, while Collette had surprised no one with her Little Mermaid -themed effort. Gabe would be thrilled. But Tara was saving the best present for last. She couldn’t wait to see the look on Gabe’s face when she told him.
She was pregnant again. A complete accident. At forty-one! Ever since she saw the pink line on the pee stick yesterday morning, she’d been unable to stop laughing. She looked at the kitchen clock: three-thirty. Gabe should be home by four.
The doorbell rang. He’s early! Two miracles in one day. Tara skipped to answer it before Mala, the maid, beat her to it.
“Happy birthd-oh. Can I help you?”
A huge black man loomed in front of her. In his late twenties, with an acne-scarred face and a blank, cold expression in his eyes, he made Tara feel instantly uneasy.
“Your husband home?”
It was half question, half sneer. Tara’s unease turned to fear. Adrenaline surged through her body.
“Yes. He’s upstairs,” she lied. “I’m afraid he’s busy at the moment. Come back another time.” She started to close the door. Smiling, the man forced his way in. The next thing Tara knew, he was holding a screwdriver to her throat.
“Quiet, and I don’t kill you, bitch.” His breath smelled of marijuana. “Where’s the safe?”
Mala appeared on the stairs. When she saw what was happening, she screamed.
“The children!” yelled Tara. “Get them out!”
The maid turned and ran. Tara felt a sharp pain. The man had slashed the screwdriver across her cheek, narrowly missing her left eye. Blood poured from the wound.
“I say QUIET!” he roared. Suddenly the entryway was filled with men-six, maybe seven of them. All were black and all were high. Tara scanned their faces, looking for one that she recognized. They were bound to come from one of the nearby townships. If she knew someone’s family, if she could appeal to them as a person…
Upstairs, Collette was screaming. Tara felt her blood run cold.
“Don’t hurt her! Please. Take what you want. But don’t hurt my children.”
Two of the men came downstairs, carrying Collette and Jamie under their arms. Collette was hysterical. Seven-year-old Jamie saw his mother’s bloodied face and wriggled free. Hurling himself at Tara’s captor, he bit him savagely on the leg.
“Leave her alone! You get away from my mummy.”
The man yelped with pain. Pulling back his foot, he kicked the boy’s head as if it were a football. Tara heard Jamie’s skull crunch as he collapsed at the knees. Her son lay on the floor, motionless.
“Open the fucking safe, bitch. Open it NOW or we kill you all.”
Gabe leaned on his horn. Sodding traffic. It wasn’t even rush hour, but every road into Camps Bay was jammed solid.
On the passenger seat of his Bentley lay the card Jamie had given him that morning. It was a picture of the two of them fishing, two grinning stick figures beside a blue felt-tip-pen river. “I love you, Daddy” was written across the top in bright red glitter.
“I love you, too, buddy,” Gabe murmured to himself.
If only the stupid roads would clear, he’d be home in ten minutes.
Tara was on her knees. She felt the cold metal of the screwdriver pressing against her temple, but tried not to think about it, or about her darling Jamie lying unconscious in the hallway.
She pressed the numbers on the keypad of the safe: Four…six…one…
“Type in some security code and I’ll slit your kids’ throats. The first siren we hear, they’re dead. Got it?”
Tara hesitated, her finger hovering in midair. One set of numbers would open the safe. Another combination opened the safe while simultaneously alerting the police.
God help us.
She pressed the final number.