It was the edge to his voice. The panic in it. The ultimate, absolute unmitigated fury and it had nothing to do with his embarrassment. She’d ruined something for him, more than his ego.

And that worried me.

“Let’s try one.” Emmersyn nodded decisively. “I need to know.”

A few seconds later, a woman’s accented voice came through. “Emmersyn, dear. I don’t… I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m happy for you. Wherever you are, whatever has happened.” Her voice lowered, like she didn’t want to be heard, and my pulse kicked up in my chest. “Do not come back here. Lincoln is… he is not angry, Emmy, he’s losing his mind and there are things I’ve learned recently that you don’t know… but whatever happened between you two, whatever he did to you… stay safe. He is… he is not okay right now. I just wanted you to know, I am not upset this happened. Elias is well… Elias is Elias, and he is not happy, but he is not happy with Lincoln either. I only called to let you know that. That we are thinking of you and we understand, I think I know why this happened. Stay safe, Emmy, and take care.”

She hung up, and Emmersyn stared at the phone, bug-eyed. “What does she know that I don’t? What in the hell is going on?”

Pretty sure that was the hammer that landed we were all wondering, staring at each other, slack-jawed and confused.

And Emmersyn? More than a little terrified.

“Is it too early to start drinking?” Heather asked.

She tossed the phone onto the counter. Emmersyn stared at it while Heather helped herself to my wine fridge.

“You okay?” I asked Emmersyn quietly.

She shook her head, not taking her eyes off the phone like Lincoln could jump right out of it and slash her throat. Given his panic and the worry and intensity from his stepmom, it wouldn’t surprise me.

“No,” she finally said. Slowly, hazy green eyes rose and met mine. “I don’t know if I am or not.”

Eighteen

Emmersyn

Lincoln sounded like a man at the tail end of a five-day bender strung out on meth or cocaine. His stepmom sounded like she’d been fearful of her own life while she spoke to me in rushed, hushed whispers. What in the hell was happening? Neither of them sounded like the people I’d known and loved for so long. And Lincoln? I could practically see him pacing, his tie askew, shirt unbuttoned and half pulled out of his waistband, dress pants wrinkled like some frat bro who’d partied all weekend and slept in his clothes for two days straight.

This wasn’t Lincoln. Not the guy I knew, but as I was quickly realizing, I didn’t think I knew him at all. Whatever version this man was, was not the man who held my hand on walks through the city, who always made sure he stood on the street side and who hadn’t let me open a car door in three years. He was not the man who took me shopping at a furniture boutique before we moved into our place “just to look” and then special ordered everything that had caught my eye, surprising me the day we moved in together with everything I’d wanted. This was not the man who bought store-bought cakes for any small or large celebration and then neatly scripted whatever we were celebrating with icing on top by himself.