Page 51 of What They Say

Emy’s expression softened. “Kath. Baby. You said yourself that boy was treating you like he liked you too. Guys don’t fake that kind of thing. Something else is probably going on.”

“I know. I just...” Kath’s voice cracked. “He felt like one of the best things I’ve ever had in my hands. And now it’s slipping away, and I don’t even know why. I’m so scared I’m going to end up just like—”

She cut herself off, but Emy knew.

“Like your mom,” Emy finished gently. “You’re not. You’re nothing like her. You’re careful. You’re strong. You’re—”

A sound from the front of the house made Kath freeze.

Footsteps. Heavy. More than one person.

Her stomach dropped. Maudie’s car wasn’t here. That meant...

“Shit,” Kath whispered. “Someone’s in the house. I think it’s Tony again. I gotta go deal with this.”

“Kath, wait—” Emy started, but Kath was already ending the call.

She stood up, phone in hand and heart pounding, and moved towards the living room. If it was Tony, she was done playing nice. She was tired of him thinking he could come and go like he owned the place.

But when she stepped into the room, it wasn’t Tony.

Two men she’d never seen before stood just inside the front door. Both were big. Both were watching her with cold, assessing eyes. One had a scar across his cheek. The other held a phone like he’d just taken a picture of the interior. His other hand casually held a gun, almost as if it were a part of him.

Kath’s blood turned to ice.

She wasn’t dealing with Maudie’s asshole ex.

This was something else entirely.

And she was alone in the house with two strange men who had just let themselves in.

Her mind raced, calculating the distance to the back door, to anything she could use as a weapon. She knew she wasn’t going to come out of this well if it turned ugly.

Not against two of them.

The man with the scar smiled slowly, like he could read every terrified thought crossing her face.

“Well,” he said quietly. “You must be Kathleen.”

She lifted the phone to dial 911, and he reached out and plucked it from her fingers.

“Nope. That would be rude, and you don’t want to be rude, trust me.”

***

Chase

Chase lifted his hand, knuckles pausing about two inches from the wooden door in front of him. The familiar grain of the office door at the Fort Wayne clubhouse felt heavier than usual tonight, like it carried the weight of everything he’d been avoiding saying out loud. He blew out a slow stream of air, trying to steady the restless energy still buzzing under his skin from the long day that had left him hollowed out and wired all at once.

Just knock, idiot. He’s your dad. Not a firing squad.

Three robust fist pounds—less than a cop knock but more than a gutter salesman. Solid. Respectful. The kind of knock that said he wasn’t a scared kid anymore.

“Come,” Mason’s voice came from inside, brusque but not unkind.

Chase opened the door and stepped into the small, familiar office. The scent of coffee, gun oil, and old leather wrapped around him like it always did. Mason sat behind the scarred wooden desk, a half-empty mug of coffee in front of him, eyes sharp even at this hour. He looked tired but alert—the president persona firmly in place.

“Chase, what’s up?”