Page 10 of Perdition (Unchained Hearts #4)

SEVEN

Navigating the familiar streets, he turned onto Billings St. and caught sight of the house.

He noted that the lights were on, but the garage door was closed, so he couldn’t tell if Em was home or not.

She was meticulous about closing the garage door, because she hated the idea of people watching her when she came and went while doing laundry.

Also, she hated that people would judge her because the garage, more or less, was a stockpile of things that she no longer had room for in the house.

It was organized chaos, just like Emily.

That thought made him smile for the first time all fucking day.

When was the last time that happened?

Turning off the engine to his ‘81 Harley Fatboy, he dismounted and headed for the front door, once again noting the lights were on.

Except the porch light. He nearly ground to a halt in surprise; that had never happened before.

Hadn’t she gotten his text telling her he’d be home?

It was going on seven in the evening, and the sun was setting, and Em always made sure the porch light was on before dark. Something about ancient times, and lantern lights leading the weary, battle-worn warrior home.

He’d always thought it was sort of endearing but silly…until that moment. When the fixture was dark, like an ink stain blotting out the vibrant color in a Thomas Kinkaid painting.

Why did it feel like he’d been forgotten?

Climbing the single stone step to the porch, he reached forward and pressed in the key code for the door.

The red light flashed, and the sensor beeped.

Furrowing his brow, he input the numbers again, numbers he’d memorized three years ago when he’d had the system installed.

It was Em’s birthday, their anniversary, and the twin’s birthday. Twelve numbers that held all the stars of his universe.

It worked every other time he’d used it, shifting the light from red to green, and unlocking the door.

Today, though…the red light flashed again, and the sensor beeped, and the lock remained.

What the fuck?

He tried the same combination of numbers another three times. If he input the incorrect key code one more time, the system would automatically call the police, and he’d have to explain to them that this was his fucking house.

And he was locked out.

His chest burning with rage, he hurried around the house to the back door, ignoring the churning in his belly. Why wouldn’t the key code work?

There was only one explanation, but he refused to believe that his wife would change the code and not tell him.

Because that would mean things were a lot worse than he thought.

Marriage in trouble….

Fuck.

He reached the back door and pulled out his cell. Maybe she had texted him the new code and he’d just missed it.

Nothing.

There was nothing from Em, not even a response to his text from earlier.

Sucking in a breath, he stared at the lock on the back door, knowing that if he tried inputting the same code, it would send an alarm to the police station. The last fucking thing he needed was to deal with today was the PD.

Sick to his stomach, he stared through the window beside the door, trying to make out any movement.

He knocked on the door, pausing between sets of raps to listen for her approach. Nothing. He knocked again.

Nothing.

Perhaps she was in one of her long bath soaks, and hadn’t gotten the text about him coming home, or she was mad at him about something, and making him sweat, or she was sleeping and couldn’t hear the beeping at the door or him knocking.

Maybe it was all a misunderstanding, or a cry for attention, or a glitch in the Matrix.

Right…and the key code changed itself, fool!

“Emily!” he yelled, banging his fist against the door, not giving a fuck if the neighbors heard. “Let me in! What the fuck is going on?”

Nothing but silence met his demands.

He pounded on the door again, his fist aching with each blow.

“Emily, let me the fuck in!”

Again, silence met his demands.

Finally, he got an idea.

He cursed.

The garage.

He had the fob for the garage door opener on the keys in his pocket.

Fuck! Why hadn’t he thought of that before; he could just open the garage and go into the house through the interior garage door.

She never locked that, no matter how many times he’d told her to.

She always said the closed garage door was secure enough, and she hated having to unlock the door every time she needed to do laundry, since the washer and dryer were in there.

At the front of the house, he hit the button on the fob, and the garage door began to ascend. Immediately he noticed only one set of tires, which meant Em’s car wasn’t there.

Where was she?

He hadn’t gotten notification from the system that she’d rearmed it after leaving, which meant she had to be there.

Unless she forgot to arm it before leaving, which wasn’t like his security conscious wife. Or the system glitched and hadn’t sent him a notification.

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.

Give this to Sarah.

You are officially unstuck from me.

Have a happy life.

Thump.

Thump.

Thud.

His heart plummeted to the ground, his jaw with it.

Unstuck?

He had never, not once, said he felt stuck with Emily—she was his wife, his every fucking thing , his ride till he died!

Sure they’d had their share of problems—what couple didn’t?

Sure, they’d been struggling a little harder lately in the relationship and intimacy department, but what later-in-life husband and wife didn’t have a little stale to go with their lifetime of fresh and fiery?

Why would Emily think…?

What the fuck did she?—

Suddenly, his conversation with Sarah from that same day came rushing back.

Then…he remembered what Sarah had said.

He been telling her she was too young to be stuck, that she had a life ahead of her, that she didn’t need to be locked down—because she was too young and immature for a committed relationship.

And she’d replied, “Like you were?”

He’d been shocked by her question, because what did the woman know about him and his marriage? Nothing. Well, nothing he’d told her, but it wasn’t a secret that he and Em were at odds after the shit he’d done to Locust and Nadia.

Instead of answering Sarah directly, he’d simply told her how long he’d been married, hoping she’d let that conversation train head right out of town, but she’d kept going, talking about how he was still young, how he didn’t have to feel stuck, how he had options….

And in a shitty effort to avoid where that was all going, he hadn’t denied anything, letting Sarah say whatever the fuck, because it didn’t matter. He knew the truth. He knew that the only option for him was Emily.

Mads loves Em 4-Ever….

Even now, that promise etched into the red maple tree was carved into the heart of him—into his very soul.

How had he forgotten something so vital? Mads loved Em… forever.

So why was he holding her kutte? Why were his worldly possessions in the bed of his truck? Why was he locked out of his home? How the hell had he allowed things to go that far…to get that bad?

It’s because Sarah flapped her lips, speaking shit she doesn’t have a clue about…. But he hadn’t denied her assumptions out loud, hadn’t thought he needed to, hadn’t realized they’d had an audience.

It shouldn’t matter if someone could overhear, you still heard it, you still didn’t say shit to defend your relationship with your wife!

Had…had Emily heard it all?