Page 77 of Fuse

“Why?” Though at once, my mind has plummeted to the same realm as my voice. Into the pit of caution—followed at once by the valley of apprehension.

And then right away into a swamp of fear.

It’s irrational at first, and I know that. Just because Emma’s not right here doesn’t mean she’s not here here. Which sounds, even in my head, like I’ve lingered too long at the Crazytown oxygen bar. But the recognition, coupled with Alex’s spidery tension and Foley’s vulture gloom, has me anxious to get moving. Now.

I grit my teeth and shove off the table as fast as possible but pay for it as soon as the room spins and my senses lurch. Still, I force my feet to stumble forward and push through the fallen blanket to make my way into the lab.

Where is she?

Where is she?

My balance reels harder. My gut clenches tighter.

As I realize she isn’t the only one missing here.

As I fight to write that off as coincidence—though my gut already seems to know it’s not.

“Wade,” I blurt, because vocalizing his absence is easier. “And Angie.” I purposely stop there, forcing a wry tone past the bizarre ball of dread growing in my gut. “Where’d those crazy kids run off to?”

Please tell me they’re just grabbing snacks.

And please tell me Emmalina’s with them.

Please, goddamnit, tell me they’re all in the kitchen inhaling bowls of Ben and Jerry’s Bolt Jolt Brittle Sundae…

“Reece.” Foley’s already moved on from his grim mission voice—though the new tone comes as no fucking reassurance. This demeanor was likely perfected when an advocate for calm was needed despite every detail of the situation dictating otherwise.

Like now. When key details of the situation are missing.

“Where is she?” My gut has turned into the goddamned ice cream churn now, only the flavor is “Salted Caramel Craptastic.” I pretend I’m standing in bespoke Prada instead of my wobbly birthday suit and that Foley’s in cahoots with Emma on pranking me with a twisted game of hide-and-seek. “Come on, asshole. Give it up for the guy who signs your paychecks. Where’s she hiding her cute little ass this time?” Which only betrays how thinly stretched my neurons still are. Because no way in hell do I want Foley, or anyone, sparing half a brain cell on envisioning my woman’s ass.

Which, thank fuck, the guy gets right away—evidenced in his slight grimace at my innuendo. But when he hardly flinches, even to offer me some kind of reasonable explanation, the churn in my belly is replaced by worse—mechanics I’ve never experienced from my system before. Gears of dread that spiral so fast, the revolutions are blinding whirs. Those spins getting so hot, they ignite rocket boosters. Those fires getting so intense, every part of my logic is a blur of dangerous heat. Houston, we have lift-off.

But no sign of Emmalina Crist.

Ground control doesn’t look filled with great news on that front.

“She’s…not here, man.”

I wait a beat. Another. Accept my sweats from Alex and then jam my legs into them without wavering my gaze from Foley. Once the pants are on, I mutter, “Okay.” And edge as close to making it a question as I can. That’s all he’s going to get, since anything I’d add would squander time that’s now precious. Seconds he could be filling me in on what’s going on.

Finally I violate my own mandate and growl, “For Christ’s sake, Foley. Spit it the fuck out. She wasn’t taken, right?”

I almost retract the fucking question mark, let alone the words themselves. If that had been the case, I’d have woken up to a much different world. Who am I kidding? I wouldn’t have woken up at all. As loyal as all these guys are to me, they’d each slice off their left testicle and eat it for Emma. They’d have left me in that Pentobarbital haze for weeks more if it meant saving her. And Foley? He’d be stomping around here like a fucking starship captain on crack, ordering everyone to move at warp speed for the sake of finding her, including everyone he knows in the FBI, his spec ops buddies, and their special “resources.” The dude is maintaining the moody glower, making him look like a blond version of the sulking Beast without his Beauty. Thank fuck we didn’t build any real turrets into this place.

Wait.

A beast. Without his beauty.

I snap up, posture going rigid. Wheel around, double-checking both rooms again. “Lydia,” I pronounce. “Where is she? Maybe she dragged Em off on a walk…to distract her…”

“Except that the last time I saw her, I’d ordered her to go get some sleep while I watched over you in her place?” says the woman now entering through the door from the driveway, her red-tinted curls blown askew—with a matching tinge at the edges of her eyes. The redness isn’t from crying, though. It’s from deeper stress. A darker fear. “Wade and Angelique are gone too.”

And just like that, this shit has gotten shittier. “I noticed,” I growl, performing a fast evaluation of the Crist sister who is standing in front of me. It’s one thing when Foley gets dramatic and dystopian with us. It’s another when Lydia sports a red-rimmed gaze, tightly wound stance, and distinctly wobbly voice—without a single bit of Lydia sarcasm to lighten the impression.

Damn it.

Ground control, we’ve got a tiny hitch.