Chapter 1
February 12th | 3:00 PM
Lincoln
Lincoln eased the car into the driveway, the tires grinding through the crust of last night’s sleet with a sound like breaking glass. He didn’t turn the engine off immediately.
Lincoln’s hands remained splayed at ten and two against the black leather of the steering wheel. He watched a single flake of snow land on the hood and melt into a dark speck. The engine’s vibration hummed through his palms, a reminder that he was still tethered to the physical world, even as his mind tried to drift toward the clinical safety of the upcoming symposium papers.
The silence of the suburban street was muffled by the fresh layer of powder that had begun to accumulate since noon. He finally killed the engine. The sudden absence of sound made his ears ring. He grabbed his leather overnight bag from the passenger seat, the strap heavy and familiar, and stepped out.
The cold air hit him with the force of a physical reprimand. It rushed into his lungs, sharp and dry, biting at the skin of his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. Lincoln tucked his chin into his scarf and started up the path. His boots sank four inches deep into the fresh layer, the powder squeaking with every step.
The front door of the bungalow yanked open before he reached the porch. His mother, Betty, appeared in the frame, her silhouette narrow and sharp against the warm yellow light of the foyer. She wore a heavy cardigan buttoned to the very top, the wool pilled at the cuffs. Her eyes were bright, searching the driveway with an intensity that made Lincoln’s stomach turn.
She looked directly past him.
“There you are,” she called out, her voice carrying a strength that defied her recent stroke. She wasn’t looking at Lincoln. She was looking at the man climbing the steps behind him.
Malik moved with a heavy, rhythmic grace. His arms were loaded with plastic grocery bags, the thin handles cutting deep, red lines into the pads of his fingers and the skin above his wrists. He smelled of the heater in his car and something faint, like sandalwood. As he passed Lincoln on the narrow porch, his shoulder brushed Lincoln’s arm. A brief, accidental friction that Lincoln felt through three layers of wool.
“My son-in-law,” Betty said. She reached out, her fingers trembling slightly as she hooked them into Malik’s elbow. She hugged him sideways, careful to avoid the rustling bags of groceries, and pulled him into the heat of the house.
Lincoln stood frozen on the top step. The cold was beginning to seep through the soles of his boots, but he couldn’t move. He watched the back of Malik’s head. The way the hair was cropped close at the nape, the slight tension in his neck. Malik turned his head just enough to meet Lincoln’s gaze over Betty’s shoulder.
Lincoln’s throat closed. The air felt like it had turned to dust. He managed a single, stiff nod. Malik returned the gesture, his expression unreadable, before Betty steered him further into the hallway.
“Come in, Son,” Betty said, her voice dropping into a tone of mild annoyance as she finally acknowledged his presence. “You’re letting the heat out. It’s cold.”
Lincoln followed them inside. He stepped over the threshold and pulled the door shut. The click of the latch sounded final, a mechanical seal that locked the three of them into the suffocating domesticity.
The kitchen was a landscape of minor clutter and the smell of old radiator dust. Lincoln hung his coat on the brass hook by the door, his movements slow and deliberate, and walked intothe room. Malik had already set the grocery bags on the counter. A tin of tomato soup escaped a bag and rolled across the surface, its metallic clatter echoing against the backsplash.
Lincoln moved to catch it. At the same moment, Malik reached for the same bag to stabilize it. Their hands brushed. A slide of Lincoln’s cold fingers against the back of Malik’s warm hand. Lincoln pulled back fast, his heart kicking against his ribs. He turned his attention to a loaf of bread, picking it up as if it were a delicate specimen.
Malik began unpacking the milk. He placed the gallon in the fridge, the plastic jug thudding against the wire shelf. Betty stood in the doorway, her hands knotted together, her gaze darting between the two of them.
“Put the bread there, Malik,” she said, pointing to the metal breadbox.
Malik didn’t correct her. He simply took the loaf from Lincoln’s hand, his fingers lingering a second too long against Lincoln’s. Then he tucked it away. Lincoln leaned back against the counter opposite the fridge, his arms crossing over his chest in a tight, protective X.
His mother watched them, a small, fragile smile touching her lips. “You two look tired,” she said, her voice softening. “Sit. I’ll go find the linens for the guest room.”
She shuffled away, the sound of her slippers a rhythmic friction against the hardwood until the kitchen door swung closed with a muted slap.
Lincoln exhaled, a long, shaky breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He looked at the floor, focusing on a scuff mark near the baseboard.
“She’s worse,” Malik said. The words were quiet, barely rising above the hiss of the radiator.
Lincoln nodded. He didn’t look up. “I know. The confusion is getting more structured. She’s building a narrative around the mistakes now.”
Lincoln leaned back against the counter, the Formica cold against his kidneys. “I know. But it’s not just the dementia, Malik. It’s Emmy.” He looked at Malik, the historian’s dark eyes steady and unblinching. “Emmy has been going along with this for months. Every time you come over to fix a porch light or bring groceries, Emmy calls you her ‘brother-in-law.’ She’s let mom believe we’ve finally made it official because it makes the family unit feel ‘settled’ to her.”
Malik let out a dry, mirthless laugh. “Brother-in-law. So I’m the missing piece of the Armstrong puzzle. And Emmy is the architect.”
“She’s co-chairing the upcoming symposium, Malik. It’s Valentine’s weekend, and she’s announcing her engagement to Shelly tonight.” Lincoln’s voice was a harsh whisper, urgent and strained. “If we shatter this illusion now...if we tell mom she’s been misled it could lead to a visible episode. She’ll get agitated, maybe aggressive. It’ll ruin the ‘perfect’ family weekend Emmy has spent a year building. You know how she is. She needs the world to look a certain way, especially on a holiday about romance.”
Malik stepped even closer, the scent of the cold winter air still clinging to his sweater. “So you want to do this? You want to play the part?”
