Chapter 5 - THE VOICEMAIL FROM HELL
Ryan sat in the dark for an hour,
paralyzed by the weight of his own ego.
He finally remembered he had a landline in the office.
He scrambled downstairs,
his hands shaking so hard he could barely dial.
He called his mother.
“Ryan?”
she answered,
her voice cold and sharp.
“Mom,
something happened,”
he choked out.
“There’s blood.
The house is empty.
They’re gone,
Mom!”
“You’re just now finding out?”
she asked,
the contempt in her voice palpable.
“What do you mean?”
“Caleb has them,
Ryan.”
“They’re at St. Jude’s.”
“Emma almost died.”
“She would have died if Caleb hadn't gone over to get his bike.”
Ryan froze.
The relief was short-lived,
quickly replaced by a searing shame.
“Is she...
is she okay?”
“She’s in the ICU.”
“The doctors said if she’d been ten minutes later,
she would have been brain dead.”
“Where were you,
Ryan?”
“I was...
I told her I was going to Aspen.”
“You left a woman who was clearly in medical distress to go drink whiskey.”
“I’m coming to the hospital,”
Ryan said,
trying to regain some shred of his "man of the house" persona.
“Don’t,”
his mother said.
“Caleb is there.”
“Emma’s mother is there.”
“And the police are there,
Ryan.”
“The police?”
“They had to file a report for neglect.”
“The hospital is required by law when a spouse leaves an injured person like that.”
Ryan hung up the phone.
The walls of his perfect life were crumbling.
He looked at the mountain of luggage in the hallway.
He looked at the photo on the mantel,
a picture of him and Emma on their wedding day.
He realized he didn't know the woman in that photo at all.
He only knew the woman who served his needs.
He grabbed his car keys and bolted out the door.
He drove like a madman toward the city.
He had to fix this.
He had to explain that he didn't know.
He had to tell them she was being dramatic.
But as he drove,
the video replayed in his head.
“Here’s to surviving high-maintenance wives.”
He had said it.
He had posted it.
The evidence of his cruelty was public record.
He reached the hospital parking lot,
his heart hammering.
He saw Caleb’s truck.
It looked like a fortress.
He walked into the lobby,
his face a mask of faux-concern.
“Emma Parker’s room,”
he demanded.
The receptionist looked at him,
then at her computer.
“Are you the husband?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry,
sir.
May you like
There is a protection order in place.”
“You aren't allowed on this floor.”
