Billion Dollar Dispute (The Lincoln Brothers #3)

1. Prologue

Prologue

Jemima

“Dad, can we go play some basketball?” Chad asks, bouncing his orange ball excitedly as he reaches my bedroom. Following behind him, I look over Chad's shoulder to see my husband, Butch, lying on the bed, partially covered by blankets, wearing just his black boxers and a stained white T-shirt. Lately, he hasn’t been taking care of himself. His beard is matted, and his blond hair, streaked with gray, hangs long and unruly.

The same man who used to get up at the crack of dawn for morning gym sessions…who once cared. He started slowly, missing a workout here, canceling plans there. I told myself it was just a phase, that the stress at work would pass. But months stretched on, and the man I loved faded, replaced by someone I barely recognized. Because of that, we’ve been fighting about everything lately.

He rolls over, mumbling something incomprehensible, and my blood boils. It’s Saturday. He used to love Saturdays. Now our apartment room’s a mess, there’s clothes thrown everywhere, and it smells stale. He’s changed…become lazy, showing no care or attention toward me or Chad anymore. I’m about to say something about it, but Chad beats me to it. “Please, Dad,” Chad tries again, his voice softer this time. Hopeful.

“Just give me a minute, kid,” he slurs after another late night. I bite the inside of my cheek so hard it hurts. A minute? He’s been giving us the bare minimum for a while now. Nights out with friends instead of being here. Missing dinners, missing bedtime stories. Missing us. The distance is making it hard to want to stay together. He’s forty-five, yet for the last twelve months, he’s been acting like a twenty-one-year-old.

I walk out, head to the kitchen, grab the bottle of Tylenol, and return to our room, tossing the bottle onto the bed next to him. “Get up and go hang out with him.”

He doesn’t even flinch or look at me...not even for Chad. My heart breaks a little more, but I push it down. I can’t fall apart. Not now.

I grit my teeth to prevent myself from yelling at him for stumbling in at three a.m. When Chad—who’s six—woke from a nightmare, the bed was still empty. After I finally got him back to sleep and settled in bed, I heard Butch stomp through our front door. It wasn’t five minutes later and he climbed into bed, fully clothed. I have no idea when he lost his jeans, but they’re off now. Shaking my head, I go back to cleaning the house, making extra noise to fuck with his headache more.

As I scrub the counters, I think about how this can’t go on. I won’t let it. I’ve been telling myself I’ll talk to him. That I’ll sit him down and force him to see what he’s doing to us. To Chad. But every time I get close, Chad is around, or he leaves for work .

Half an hour later, he ventures out of the bedroom with red-rimmed eyes and a deep scowl. He looks ten years older today. I look away, pretending it doesn’t hurt to see him like this.

“Don’t come back for at least two hours. I’d like to finish cleaning the house,” I say through a clenched jaw, needing a moment to calm the rage inside me since Chad’s in the next room.

“Quit nagging me, woman.”

Don’t snap in front of Chad.

I take a shaky breath, before replying, “Just go.”

They leave, and I sag against the counter. This can’t go on. Tomorrow we’re having the conversation.

When he returns a few hours later, Chad can’t stop talking about all the cool shots his dad took. I put on the biggest, fakest smile and listen as he talks. Butch retreats to our room while I move Chad to the living room to play Chutes and Ladders. Afterwards, I peek into the bedroom, finding Butch still passed out, so I head out to the store with Chad. Not wanting Chad to see his dad in his disgusting state, I make sure to take our time picking out food items, and when we return, I start baking muffins for Chad to take to school next week and then get started on dinner.

A few hours later, I hear Butch bark out, “Are you making dinner?” He’s still lying on our bed. With his mood swings out of control, I feel like I’m walking on eggshells in my own home.

“Yeah. Your favorite…pasta bake,” I call back.

The TV murmurs in the background with a cartoon our six-year-old loves to watch. Butch mumbles something I can’t hear.

“Are you going to get up?” I ask.

“Give me a fucking break, Jem,” he snaps.

“Don’t swear,” I hiss, annoyed he doesn’t care about his influence on his son.

A knock sounds at the door. “Are you expecting someone?” I ask, tossing a bottle of beer into the trash.

“No,” he replies with a huff.

Realizing Butch isn’t going to get up and answer it, I sigh. I stop preparing dinner and move to open the door, but before I can reach it, it bursts open with a crash. I scream as four police officers storm in, weapons drawn, the door now off its hinges.

The officers move inside, and one goes straight to our bedroom. “Butch, on the ground! Hands where I can see them.”

My heart slams into my throat. “Chad!” I gasp, my eyes darting wildly around the living room. I spot him frozen near his toys.

“It’s okay. Come here.” My voice cracks as I rush to him, scooping him up, holding him so tight he’s practically molded to me. His little hands cling to my neck like a lifeline.

“Mommy, what’s happening?” Chad’s voice is high-pitched, his breaths warm and quick against my neck.

“I don’t know, honey,” I reply in a shaky voice.

There’s a loud sound of furniture breaking, followed by grunting and more yelling. I keep Chad’s face against me, shielding him from the sight. My breathing becomes shallow, each inhale a struggle against the crushing weight of panic.

I swallow my hysterical sobs, but silent tears flow down my cheeks. The officers quickly handcuff Butch, and there’s a heavy bang, likely from him being put on the ground. An officer reads him his rights.

Another officer speaks. “You’re under arrest for drug trafficking. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…”

Drug trafficking… No. No way. Butch? This must be a mistake.

An officer stands in our way, keeping us away from Butch, and I’m grateful for the help in blocking Chad's view of the scene.

“What’s going on?” I ask, my voice breaking.

“Ma’am, please remain calm,” the officer replies gently. “We’re here as part of an ongoing investigation. We just need to do our job, and I promise everything is being handled properly.”

I nod, my thoughts a mess of fear and confusion.

“We do need to ask you a few questions, if that’s okay,” he says. “Officer Kate MacDonald will keep Chad occupied for a bit.”

“Okay.” I lower Chad to his feet. Officer MacDonald kneels to Chad’s level. She offers a kind smile, holding out one of his toy cars.

“It’s okay, honey,” I say, stroking his hair. “I’ll be right here.”

Officer MacDonald glances at me. “We’ll stay right here in the living room where he can see you,” she assures me. She knows what she’s doing, and right now, I need someone to help keep Chad safe.

I look down at Chad, giving him a reassuring nod. Brow furrowed, he lets go and walks over to his toys with Officer MacDonald.

The other officer turns his attention back to me, but I keep my eyes on Chad. “Do you know anything about Butch’s whereabouts or what he was doing last night?”

“No, I was here with Chad the whole night. I don’t know anything about this.”

He nods, writing down some notes. Then, he asks a lot more questions. Were you aware that your husband was involved in selling or using drugs? Have you ever seen your husband use drugs or have drugs in the house? Have you ever helped your husband with any of his activities, knowingly or unwillingly? And so many more…

My answer to every single one is a resounding no .

“If anything comes to mind later, anything at all, please get in touch with us.”

“Of course.”

“Jem. Chad—” Butch calls out, as Chad returns to me.

I cry again, but harder this time. What have you done? Why would you do that? I want to say, but the words are stuck in my throat.

He looks at me, but there’s no regret or pain, only defeat.

“I didn’t want you to find out like this…” he says as the police lead him out.

The officer turns to me. “Are you okay?”

I nod, unable to speak. My hands are trembling, my head spinning with too many thoughts at once.

The officer must notice my panic, because he asks, “Is there someone you can call to come stay with you tonight? Any family nearby?”

“Y—Yeah,” I manage to reply.

When the door closes with a heavy thud, the tears come silently. I hold Chad tightly in my arms, not letting go, even as the sound of the sirens fade into the distance.

How could I not have known?

Pulling back slightly, I brush the hair from his damp cheeks. “Are you okay?”

He nods hesitantly but doesn’t speak. I cup his face, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Everything’s going to be okay,” I promise, even though I’m not sure how. “I’ve got you.”

“But where’s Dad?” he asks, his little face wearing a confused expression. “Will he come back?”

“I don’t know, honey,” I answer honestly.

His lip quivers as he takes a deep breath, leaning back into my arms. I need to be strong for him, even if I feel like I’m falling apart. After a few minutes, I take him to the sofa and turn on his favorite show. I rub his back as he nestles into the cushions. “I’ll be right here, okay? I just need to make a quick call.”

He nods again, his eyes already glued to the screen. He’s settled and distracted…for now, at least. I step into the kitchen, my hands shaking as I dial my mom, but she doesn’t answer. So, I call his parents. They live two and a half hours away, but I need to tell them what happened. When I finally get the words out, they’re just as shocked as I am. I try to stay calm, explaining that they’re always welcome to visit Chad, but they need to help their son because I can’t do it anymore. I share that the front door is now broken, and my father-in-law immediately offers to come fix it. I don’t refuse because I can’t sleep here until it’s done, and I need to keep Chad in the same environment until I figure out what to do next.

While I wait for them to come, I continue making dinner for Chad. I’m no longer hungry though. My mind races, trying to piece together all the little things he’s been saying and doing, trying to recall any signs of him using or selling drugs.

I feel so fucking stupid.

Two and a half hours later, my in-laws arrive. They step into the room, and an uneasy silence hangs in the air. I can see the confusion in their eyes, the way they search my face for answers I can’t give. I swallow hard. His mother hesitates before meeting my eyes, her lips quivering. I’ve known her for seventeen years, so I take a step forward, opening my arms. She falls into me, her body trembling as she cries against my shoulder. When she finally pulls back, I turn to my father-in-law. He nods stiffly, his eyes glassy, holding back tears as I embrace him too.

My mother-in-law moves away to play with Chad as my father-in-law replaces the door. I insist they stay for dinner, which Chad loves, because he gets to tell them all about his morning with his dad, making his grandma well up with tears. Once it’s late enough, they leave, and I give Chad a bath before tucking him in bed.

“Mom, where did they take Dad?” he asks again, and my heart cracks wide open.

“I’m not sure, honey, but you and I are not going anywhere. We’re going to be okay.” As I exit his room, I realize I can’t keep saying that. Eventually I’ll have to explain. But what do I say when I can’t comprehend it myself, let alone his little mind?

Ready for a hot shower, I move to the bathroom. I spot Butch’s comb, hair gel, toothbrush…all mocking me. The fact that he would bring drugs into our life and house with our son is enough for me to snap. I grab his shit and throw it all in the trash. Opening the cupboards, I clear out his aftershave, razor, and anything else that's his. There’s no way I want to look at it. I should’ve given it all to his parents, but I wasn’t thinking clearly, and I don’t want them coming all the way back for useless shit they can pick up from Target.

I sit at the edge of our unmade queen bed and feel a little better after throwing it all away. There’s a photo of us on our wedding day on the nightstand—a time when we were happy. Tears stream down my face as it hits me. I’m alone. I feel a weird numbness as if I’m empty inside.

How could he do this to us?

I can’t seem to stop sobbing until exhaustion takes over, so I put the picture on the side table, facing down. I don’t want to look at it. Lying down in the bed, the smell of him hits me hard. I roll over, and looking at his side of the bed makes my chest tight. I imagine him there. It’s so vivid that it makes my stomach churn. I get up, grab a clean blanket from the cupboard that doesn’t stink of him, move down to the sofa, and cry myself to sleep.