Page 20 of Perdition

Or, just like the key code, Em had changed the system settings to not notify him of her comings and goings.

But why would she do that? Why would she change the key code in the first place?

He ducked under the garage door even before it finished its ascent, and strode to the interior door. He turned the knob.

What the fuck?

Locked.

It was locked.

“What the hell?” he snarled, banging his fist against the door. “Why would she lock this door now?”

Something curled in his belly, oily, bitter, acidic.

What the hell was going on?

Swallowing down the rising bile, he swung around, determined to get into his house by any means necessary, then to find his wife and figure out what the absolute fuck she was thinking, locking him out of his own fucking house.

Headed back toward his bike, something out the corner of his eye stopped him.

His feet moved without his permission, right to the bed of the Chevy.

Usually empty, the bed of the truck was full.

His clothes.

His shoes.

The framed picture of his restored truck that was supposed to be hanging in the guest bathroom.

His mugs—even the ones she’d bought him—“World’s Best Dad”,“I like my coffee as black as my soul”, and the Lt. Joe Kenda mug that simply said,“Well my, my, my….”

But the clothes, the shoes, picture, or mugs weren’t what made his heart stall, his lungs squeeze, and his knees nearly give out.

It was the property kutte, thrown carelessly into the corner of the truck bed, like it was a dirty oil rag and not a piece of his heart and soul, a symbol of his possession of her and her pride in him.

Sucking in a breath that nearly fucking choked him, he reached out with trembling hands, took the soft leather into his grip, and pressed it into his chest.

Locked doors.

Dark porch.

Kutte tossed away like trash.

“Em…Emily…,” he rasped, blinking suddenly blurry eyes, “what…what…?”

He chest burning like he’d just swallowed the sun, he reached into his pocket for his cell, only one thought in mind—find Emily.

He called. She didn’t answer.

He called. She sent him to voicemail.

He called, and called, and called, standing there in the garage of the home he shared with this wife, next to the bed of a truck holding all his earthly possessions, and she didn’t answer once.

Find her!

He hurried to his bike, having no fucking idea where his wife was or where she would have gone, he reached toward the saddle bags to tuck his wife’s kutte inside, but something pinned to the inside of it caught his attention. Opening the kutte, he found a note, written in his wife’s pretty scrolling hand.