Vicki rushed into the suite where, like any good V. C. Andrews heroine, she spotted the strapping silhouette of a man waiting for her in the dark.

Phil

The wedding band was now playing “Shout.” Phil could hear it from where he still sat, at the bar, trying to decide what to do next. He couldn’t face sitting at his assigned wedding table, where he’d have to discuss things he didn’t want to talk about, like Bee and Matt, foreign countries, babies, and where he’d been for the last two hours.

Instead he decided to call his mother.

Nancy had told him not to check in again tonight, that she’d most likely be asleep by eight, and that Phil could see her sometime tomorrow. But he figured he could leave a message, just so she wouldn’t have to feel alone when she woke up.

He stepped out the back door of the bar, through which the three old men—Phil’s audience for much of the night—had exited just a few minutes earlier. That put him on the opposite side of the clubhouse from the reception tent, closer to the parking lot and a maze of small shrubs and out-of-bloom rosebushes.

He paced around the building as the phone rang, until a voice stopped him.

“Hello?” the voice answered.

Phil quickly pressed “end,” terminating the call before saying a word. It was a man who had answered, so Phil must have dialed the wrong number. He looked at his phone and inspected the name of the contact he’d just called. It said “Mom.” He paused to think, staring at the cars in the lot, confused.

His hands shaking, he looked back at the phone and pressed “send” again. This time the man picked up on the second ring.

“Hello,” the man said, irritated, as if he suspected the caller was about to hang up again.

“Hello?” Phil asked, confused.

“Who is this?” the man asked. “Phil? Is that you?”

“Hand me the phone,” Phil heard his mother shout hoarsely in the background.

Phil pressed “end” again. Panicked, he scrolled through his contacts until he landed on “Mickey cell.” He pressed “send” again.

“Freak show!” Phil’s brother yelled into the phone, using his favorite term of endearment for his much-taller younger brother.

“Mickey, mom’s in trouble,” Phil rambled into the phone too quickly, his voice unsteady. As he spoke he took long strides toward the parking lot, his car keys out in his free hand. He was almost running.

“Jesus,” Phil’s brother said. “What happened? Did she fall down? Are you with her now? Should I drive over there?”

“There’s a guy there,” Phil said, now in front of his Durango. “Someone’s in the house.”

“Who’s in the house?” Mickey asked, his voice now panicked like Phil’s. “Like a burglar?”

“I don’t know,” Phil said angrily, opening the driver’s side door. “I just called her and a guy answered the phone. And he knew my name. He said Phil.”

“He knew you?” Mickey was calmer now. He let out a small laugh. “If he knew your name, it was probably just Captain Mulcahy.”