The Steel Kiss

Ginnie noted her husband glance at the spot on her body where Carole was doing just that. It was just a T-shirt, yes, but quite tight and made of thin silk.

Arnie: “The Pétrus? It was heaven. I nearly came.” He pretended to looked shocked at his own words. “Listen to this: We bribed the maître d’ to let us sneak it into Romanee. They don’t have a corkage policy, you know.”

“I didn’t,” Ginnie said with mock astonishment. “Oh, my God.”

Arnie added, “I know. A restaurant like that.”

The couples sat and conversation meandered. Carole asked about Trudy and the schools they had planned for her (not as outrageous as it seemed, Ginnie had learned; Manhattan parents must plan early for their offsprings’ education). The Bassetts were a few years younger—early thirties—and were just thinking about children now.

Carole added, “Next year sounds good. For conceiving, I mean. It’ll be a convenient time. The company’s putting a new maternity leave plan in place. A friend of mine in HR told me about it. He said he wasn’t supposed to say anything, but I should wait to get pregnant.” She laughed wickedly. “It’s sort of like insider trading!” and studied Ginnie’s face to see if she got the risqué joke.

Got it and stepped on it till it was dead.

“Have to give up the wine,” Carole had said. “That’ll be hard.”

“You won’t miss it. Only eighteen months.”

“Eighteen?” Carole asked.

“Breast-feeding.”

“Oh. That. Well. It’s pretty much optional nowadays, isn’t it?”

The men talked about business and Washington and all the while examined their glasses as if the amber liquid inside were unicorn blood.

Carole rose, saying she wanted to show off a new print she’d gotten from her “favorite” gallery in SoHo. Ginnie wondered: How many galleries did she have?

They were halfway across the living room floor when a man’s voice intruded.

“Hi, there, little one.”

Everyone froze. Looking around.

“Aren’t you a cute little petunia.”

The baritone words oozed from the speaker of Ginnie’s phone, sitting on the coffee table. Her wineglass tumbled to the floor and shattered into a hundred pieces and she lunged for the Samsung.

Arnie said, “Wasn’t the Waterford. Don’t worry—”

“What is that?” Carole asked, nodding to the phone.

It was what Henry and Ginnie called the “Nanny”—actually a state-of-the-art baby monitor. The microphone was next to Trudy’s crib and sensitive enough to pick up the child’s breathing and heartbeat.

And could also pick up the voices of anyone in the room.

“You’re coming with me, honeybun. I know somebody who wants to give you a whole new home.”

Ginnie screamed.

She and Henry bolted for the door, flung it open and sprinted down the hall, followed by the Bassetts. Henry raged at her, “Did you lock the fucking window?”

“Yes, yes, yes!”

“Stay asleep, little one.”

Ginnie’s mind was a swirling tornado. Tears streamed and her heart vibrated in her chest. She lifted her phone and touched voice on the monitor app. She shouted into the microphone—it was a two-way system: “The police are here, you son of a bitch. Don’t you touch her. I’ll kill you if you touch her.”

A pause, as perhaps the intruder was noticing the monitor. He chuckled. “Police? Really? I’m looking out Trudy’s right window and there’s not a cop to be found. Better be going. Sorry, your little dear’s still snoozing; I’ll have to say goodbye for her. Bye-bye, Mommy. Bye-bye Daddy.”

Ginnie screamed again. Then: “Now! Now! Open the door!”

Henry fumbled the keys and Ginnie ripped them out of his hand, shoving him aside. She unlatched the door and pushed it in. She detoured into the kitchen to grab the first butcher knife in the block and charged to her daughter’s room, swung it open, flipped the overhead light on.

Trudy stirred slightly at the intrusion. But didn’t wake.

Henry pushed inside an instant later and they both scanned the small room. No one. The window was still locked. And the closet was empty.

“But… ”

She handed the husband the knife and picked up and clutched her child.

Arnie and Carole were right behind them. Relief flooded their faces, seeing the baby girl.

“Is he here?” Carole asked in a tremulous voice, looking around.

But Arnie, the high-tech entrepreneur, was shaking his head, picking up the monitor near Trudy’s crib. “No, he’s not. He could be a hundred miles away. He hacked into the server.” He tossed the device back onto the table.

“So he could hear us now?” Ginnie cried, grabbing it from him and shutting it off.