Page 100 of The Cul-de-Sac War

This was game time.

Focus time.

And nothing would make him miss this meeting.

He was giving her everything she had asked for all along.

Polite distance.

For the past week Russell stayed inside mostly, and when he went outdoors Chip supervised.

He finally got around to putting up new curtains.

Chip gave a polite nod and greeting when they ran into each other mornings and evenings. This morning she wished him luck on the bank meeting when he’d answered her question about his day. He nodded and wished her luck at another day of practice at the warehouse before her audition.

At noon Chip slipped the tie through the hole and tightened the knot at his throat as he watched himself in the mirror. The creases in his suit trousers were so perfect someone could have used them as a ruler on an architectural drawing. His button-up was so white it hurt his eyes. He checked his watch.

One hour until the meeting.

He wasn’t going to get there ten minutes early. No. He was going to be there forty-five minutes early and sit there happily, one crisp trouser leg over the other, until the man opened the door.

Chip patted his suit jacket, trouser pockets, and briefcase as he stepped outside his door.

Phone.

Keys.

Financial documents. Résumé. Estimates. Pages upon pages of estimates.

Here we go.

As he pulled into the parking lot of the Bank of Abingdon, his phone buzzed inside his trousers. He hesitated before pulling it out to answer.

But the clock on his dashboard said he had fifty-two minutes of waiting left. He was there. Although he’d told his subs to do their best to hold all calls until 3:00 p.m., there was no telling what emergency had cropped up. Heck, if one of the subs was calling him after he’d been so clear, the odds were real and high that whatever was happening was dire and getting costlier by the minute.

He pulled the phone out of his pocket and saw a number he didn’t recognize.

That ruled out his mother, his brothers, and all of his dependable subs.

Francis maybe?

Chip pressed Accept and put the phone to his ear. “What’s up?”

But it wasn’t Francis. Or Eric. Or any one of the three guys who cycled through phones and phone numbers the way they cycled through fast-food meals.

“Chip, is that you?” The woman’s voice broke.

Chip paused before turning off the truck’s ignition. “Mrs. Leake? Yes, it’s me. What’s going on?”

Her voice was unsteady. It cracked as she spoke. “I’m so sorry to bother you like this. It’s just”—she paused, sniffled—“we’ve been trying to reach Bree for an hour. Her phone goes straight to voicemail like it’s turned off and—and she needs to know about Anna.”

Chip held his breath. He cast his eyes down Main Street. “Does she . . .” He fought to find the words. “Is she . . .”

“She’s in the PICU now,” she managed. “I’m in the lobby. They aren’t letting us in. We’re all here. Everyone—”

Chip’s jaw flexed.

He glanced in the rearview mirror at the bank’s doors.