“Mummy!” Archie shouts.
Then Hugh is by Tom’s side, pummeling him with his fists. “Get off her!” he screams, his voice high-pitched and terrified. “Leave her alone. You already killed Holland!”
“No!” I shout as Tom raises his hand, lashing out and sweeping Hugh across the kitchen. There’s a bang, then my boy’s piercing cry, but I can’t turn my head because he wont let me move.
“Hugh, darling. It’s all right. Everything is going to be all right.” Please let everything be all right. “Archie, please don’t cry.”
“He killed Holland,” my baby wails. “And now he’s killed Hugh.”
“No, I’m okay,” my eldest says. “I j-just bumped my head.”
“H-H-Hugh’s head is bleeding!” Archie howls.
“Archie, go and get the folder on the dining room table,” Tom demands, “and be fucking quick about it.”
“Go on, darling. Get the file for him.”
Tom’s ragged breaths are harsh in my ear, his chest heaving as though he’s run a minute mile. Yet I feel cold and deathly calm.
“Is Holland really dead?” I whisper.
“You think I give a shit? The pair of you have it so fucking easy.”
Breath and sadness sag from me. “Tom, no. Sandy will tear you limb from limb.”
“He’s got to catch me first,” he says, dragging me over to the island by the hair. I catch a glimpse of Hugh as I’m swung around, my stomach swooping at the flash of red across his outstretched palm. “You stay where you are,” Tom growls, flipping open the familiar manila folder. “You shoulda had this in a safe.”
His self-satisfaction sickens me.
“We don’t have a safe.” I never needed one with him because we never had any money.
“Got yourself a pretty little nest egg here and a husband worth billions.”
“A husband who will hurt you down when he sees what you’ve done today.”
“Aye, but I’ll be long gone. Archie, gimme that laptop,” he demands.
“Pass it over, darling.” I encourage him with a smile that probably isn’t very reassuring. It doesn’t help that the saliva has dried up in my mouth, making my lips uncooperative.
“Sign in to the account,” Tom mutters.
“I can’t even see the keyboard,” I complain as he holds my head at an awkward angle.
“You’ll manage. This one.” Grabbing the paperwork for the first account, he presses my head lower. “Transfer the money into this account.” He thrusts a small square of paper under my nose, the numbers scrawled in his hand.
I haven’t even signed into these accounts yet—not once. There might be a daily transfer limit or some kind of security. My stomach somersaults as I send a silent prayer that there isn’t.
I sign in, pass the security details despite my shaking hands, and transfer a whole lot of numbers into Tom’s offshore bank account.
The second isn’t so easy.
“Attempt two of three,” I read from the screen.
“Fuck! Fuck!” Tom whacks the back of my head with the palm of his hand.
“I can call them.” Anything to get him out of this house.
“No. No phones,” he grates out. “Archie, go get your shoes. Jacket, too.”
“What? Where are you taking him?”
“I don’t want to,” my boy whimpers.
“Do as you’re fucking told!” he yells, part man, part petulant adolescent as he actually stomps his feet.
“You can’t take him.” The fear building inside me spreads across my skin in a rush of prickling heat.
Tom’s expression twists as he glances down at me. “Aye? What are you gonna do about it, then?”
“I won’t let you take him.”
“He’s half mine, and you’ll get him back once I have my money. Maybe,” he adds with a cruel grin. “I have their passports. I was gonna take them both—hit you where it hurts—but I think I’ll just take Arch.”
“No!” my littlest man wails. “I didn’t do anything!”
“Shoes!” Tom barks again. “And don’t think about running away, or I’ll hurt your mother,” he adds as an afterthought.
“Tom, this isn’t you,” I whisper. “You don’t need to do this.”
He sniffs, wiping under his nose with the back of his hand. “It’s what I’ve been driven to,” he mutters, staring at the door as though willing Archie’s return. “I want that money, or you’ll never see him again. I fucking mean it, Iz. You took my life. My way of making something of it.”
“No, I—”
“Shut the fuck up!”
Something snaps inside me. I hear the crack—the fissure—it feels almost violent. I glance up at him, wondering if he’d heard it, too. Something inside me seems to take over. My head comes down, and everything begins to slow.
I catch Hugh’s eye.
My hand lifts.
My mouth opens, mouthing just one word. “Run!”
My elbow descends, the blow landing between the V of Tom’s legs.
His body bows, his breath coasting my face. The stool moves from under me. Tom grabbing my hair as I pull away, not even feeling the pain. I fall forward, my fingers scrabble, the knife block in sight. He pulls me back but not before my fingers fasten tight around one of the handles.