They had watched his mother repeat the story.
Then they had followed Marcus when he carried his cruelty downstairs.
As agents secured him, chairs scraped above us.
The remaining guests moved away from the dining table.
Marcus’s mother appeared at the top of the basement stairs.
The gold chain was wrapped around her fist.
She looked at her son on the floor, then at the phone in my hand, then at the agents surrounding the cage.
“You don’t understand,” she said.
The key shone beneath the basement light.
Everyone understood.
An agent ordered her to stay where she was.
She stepped backward.
For one second, she seemed to consider handing over the key.
Then she turned and ran.
She did not get far.
Agents caught her near the stairs and brought her back down.
She fought harder when they reached for the chain than Marcus had fought when they cuffed him.
The key was removed from her neck.
Because Marcus had reinforced and welded the cage door, the agents still had to force the damaged metal apart before they could reach me.
The process took only minutes.
Inside the cage, it felt longer.
One agent knelt outside the bars and kept talking to me.
She did not ask me to tell the whole story.
She asked whether I could breathe.
She asked whether the baby was moving.
She asked where the phone had been hidden so no one would step on it.
Those practical questions gave me something to hold on to while the door was opened.
