21. Emily
Emily
Something is wrong.
I don’t mean the regular kind of wrong, like realizing you left your coffee on top of your car and drove off without it. I mean the kind of wrong where everyone is staring at you like you’ve grown a second head, and no one has the decency to tell you why.
That’s been my morning.
I have received exactly 47 weird looks since I walked into the hospital.
Forty. Seven.
I’d started counting after Nurse Peggy nearly dropped a tray of syringes upon seeing me. She made a noise somewhere between a squeak and a strangled gasp, then scurried away like I had announced I was here to perform open-heart surgery with a spoon.
Then there was Dr. Patel, who smiled at me. Not her usual tight, "you exist and I acknowledge it" smile. No. It was one of those pitying, bless your heart, honey smiles. The kind reserved for people who get dumped via Post-it note.
Something is definitely wrong.
The final straw is when I walk into the break room and all conversation halts the second I enter.
Nurse Peggy—traitor that she is—slaps a hand over her mouth like she just swallowed a secret whole.
I narrow my eyes. “Okay, someone tell me what’s going on before I start assuming the worst.”
Peggy opens and closes her mouth. Then—
“I’m sure it’s not that bad—”
I fold my arms. “What’s not that bad?”
She lets out an awkward giggle. “Oh, look at the time! I have to go…do…nurse things!”
She flees.
I blink.
What in the fresh hell?
By the time my shift ends, I’m done pretending everything is normal. I grab my bag, shove my phone into my pocket, and head straight for the one person who always has the town’s gossip before it happens.
Maggie.
Her café is warm and inviting, the scent of fresh pastries wrapping around me like a hug. The woman herself is behind the counter, her head bent as she wipes down the espresso machine with unnecessary force.
“Maggie,” I greet, sliding onto a stool.
She jumps. Jumps.
Then she spins, slapping on an exaggerated grin. “Emily! My favorite fake—I mean favorite person!”
I freeze.
Favorite fake?
“Maggie,” I say slowly. “What. Happened.”
She swipes at the counter, avoiding my gaze. “Oh, you know… just the usual small-town excitement.”
I arch a brow. “Did you get another petition to rename Main Street after your great-grandfather?”
“No, that was last month.”
“Did someone’s cow get stuck in the town fountain again?”
“Not this time.”
“Maggie.”
She sighs, setting down her rag. “Look, why don’t you have some coffee first?”
“Why don’t you tell me why everyone in town is looking at me like I ran over a litter of puppies?”
Maggie groans, rubbing her temples.
“Maybe you should ask Grace,” she suggests. “I have to—uh—go do something…somewhere else.”
She bolts before I can stop her. Grace, as it turns out, is far less skilled at dodging questions.
I find her behind the counter, pouring lattes with the casual ease of a teenager who has already accepted the chaos of adulthood.
“Grace.”
She looks up, eyes widening. “Oh! Hey, Emily! You, uh, look…great!”
My hands settle on my hips. “Tell me what’s going on before I lose my mind.”
She grimaces. “You don’t know?”
“Clearly not.”
Grace winces, then leans in.
“Someone,” she whispers, “played an audio recording of you and Uncle Henry arguing at the gala over the loudspeakers. The whole town heard you say your relationship is fake.”
My stomach plummets. My heart stumbles, then trips over itself as the realization sinks in.
“Who broke the news?”
Grace shifts on her feet. “Uh… yeah, about that—”
"Did you speak to Henry?" I manage.
She nods. "He knows. I told him this morning."
Every. Single. Person. In. This. Town. Knows.
And Henry knows they know.
I snatch my phone out of my pocket and call him.
Voicemail. I try again. Still voicemail.
Where the hell is he? I shoot to my feet, grabbing my phone. My pulse pounds.
Grace frowns. "Emily, where are you going?"
"Home," I say quickly, already pushing toward the door. "I hope that’s where I find Henry."
My foot stays on the accelerator as I speed home, heart hammering.
The house is empty. I scan the living room, my chest tightening. No sign of Henry.
Then my eyes land on a pile of mail sitting by the door, like it was knocked over in a rush. I crouch, mindlessly picking up the scattered envelopes—until one catches my eye.
It’s from a military base. And it’s addressed to Henry.
I open it.
And everything inside me shatters.
"You have been reactivated and are to report for duty in Yemen within the next three days."
I stumble back, my breath shallow.
My hands shake as I reread the words, my vision blurring. Henry’s been planning this. He’s been trying to leave. The fights. The distance. The cold detachment. It wasn’t about me. It was about him running.
Again.
Pain claws up my throat, choking me. How long had he known? How long had he been planning to disappear? How long had he been preparing to leave me behind?
A sob bubbles in my chest, but I shove it down. Not now. Not yet.
I check my phone again—no call, no message from Henry.
Instead, my phone rings with another number.
Chief Tom. Oh, this cannot be good.
I pick up, my voice hoarse. "Chief?"
I swipe to answer. “Chief?”
“Emily, you might want to head to the station,” he says, his voice far too calm for my liking.
I grip the counter. “Why?”
A pause.
Then—
“Henry’s in lockup.”
I blink. “I’m sorry. He’s what?”
Another pause.
“He may or may not have beaten the hell out of Dane Jacobs.”
My brain short-circuits. “You’re kidding.”
“Wish I was.”
I exhale, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I’ll be right there.”
I shove my phone into my pocket and head towards the door, trying to ignore the pain in my heart. All this time, while I was here wondering if we could be something—if there was a chance for us—he was plotting his escape.
My chest tightens, my pulse hammering against my ribs as I pull open the door to find a figure standing on my front porch.
I glance up. And my stomach drops.
It’s a man.
Tall. Familiar.
The lines of his face, aged but recognizable.
Memories I buried years ago slam into me like a freight train.
It can’t be—
“Emily,” he says, voice rough, eyes sharp.
My throat goes dry. This is my father.
I take a step back, my heart pounding so hard it shakes my ribs.
“I need to talk to you,” he says.
“No.” The word is out before I can stop it.
His gaze darkens. “It’s important.”
I shake my head. “I don’t care.”
His expression tightens. “I know you’re in danger.”
That makes me pause.
His jaw clenches. “I’ve been watching over you. We need to talk.”
A chill runs down my spine.
I knew someone had been following me. I knew I wasn’t imagining it. My grip tightens around the phone in my hand.
My stomach churns.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
He sighs. "I’ve been watching you since I got out of prison three months ago."
The world tilts.
"You—what?"
He nods. "I’ve seen the men. The ones keeping tabs on you." His gaze darkens. "You’re in danger, Emily. And you need to listen to me."
I shake my head, my heart hammering.
This can’t be real. This shouldn’t be real.
But it is.
And I don’t know what’s worse—the fact that my father is standing here after years of nothing.
Or the fact that a part of me wants to believe him. I exhale sharply, my grip on my phone tightening.
I need to get to Henry.
But I need answers, too.
My father watches me, waiting.
I should be running to bail him out. Instead—I punch off a quick text to Sarah about Henry being in lock up and needing bail and then I step back inside and close the door behind my father.
“Start talking,” I say.
And pray I don’t regret it.