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fast he rode.
    "Hey, J. You're scaring me, man." Case's voice sounded far away. J. took another deep breath, counting backwards from ten like he had learned in anger management class.
    "You want us to take care of that piece of shit?" Crash's voice caught him by surprised. He hadn't realized he had reappeared at the doorway. MacDougal was looming behind him, his angry expression saying everything that needed to be said.
    J. knew if he said the word, Randall would be history. His brothers had his back. "This isn't your fight," J. exhaled.
    "Yeah it is," Crash declared. "That coward ruins your life and now he's moved in on your sister? Scum like that needs to be wiped from the earth."
    "J.?" Case's voice was calm but concerned. "You tell us what to do. But you have to do something."
    "But not today," Crash protested. "Today we drink."

Chapter 7

    Emmy

    "How are you today, Miss Hawthorne?"
    I was hurrying to get to our elevator, but I couldn't bring myself to ignore Officer Wilkens. The retired officer sat behind a glass walled booth at the entrance to our building and his sharp eyes didn't miss a thing.
    "Hey there Mickey, did you see Robert come in yet?"
    "No Miss, I haven't seen him yet." Mickey Wilkens still had an old-fashioned formality about him that I liked, even if I still found it strange to accept.
    "Thank you," I breathed, hoping the relief in my voice wasn't audible.
    Robert wasn't home yet. That would give me time to collect myself before he arrived. Sammie had rattled me deeper than I cared to admit. He doesn't have to hit you to leave a mark.
    I smiled at the old man, hoping to get him going on one of his old stories to distract me. "How late are you here tonight, Mick?"
    "I just started an hour ago, Miss."
    I felt a rush of panic flood my mouth with its metallic taste. Robert could have come home before Mickey's shift started. He could be up there waiting for me right now, wondering what was taking me so long at lunch. He would be angry at me for not being there for him. He always needed me to be there when he got home from work. I was his refuge. He had told me that a million times. How long was it going to take me to remember?
    "Oh, well I hope it goes quickly!" I sang out as I hurried to our elevator. Mentally I began to prepare my lies. I had left the CD of my work at home and had to double back, so lunch hadn't started until later than I said it would. That would work. Robert always believed stories that involved me making mistakes.
    When the doors whooshed open, I held my breath waiting for him to call, "And where have you been?" But I was greeted with silence.
    "Hello? I stepped off the elevator into our massive living room. I looked into the front closet. Robert's bag was not hanging in its usual spot.
    I exhaled slowly in relief.
    I kicked off my shoes and set them tidily in the closet. Then I flopped on our white sectional, daring to drape my legs over the arm, and stared at the ceiling. I lay with my arms flung out and watched the fan in the vaulted ceiling high above me. It rotated slowly, and I focused on watching one blade at a time. It was always on, day and night, winter and summer. Robert insisted on what he called "airflow," and had a precise way he programmed it. Something about counter-rotation pushing the warm air down out of the ceiling. If I so much as dared to change the speed or direction of the fan, Robert would notice. Even if it seemed to me like I had exactly replicated Robert's methods, he would still notice.
    I let my gaze flit from blade to blade, concentrating hard on keeping my thoughts at bay. But my anger at Sammie crowded everything else out of my head. How dare she? She was supposed to be my best friend and yet she couldn't even be happy for me that I had found someone so wonderful. Someone who cared enough about me to try to make me better. To raise me up from my white-trash upbringing and introduce me to the finer things in life. Sure Robert had his own way of doing