“We’ve met, haven’t we?” I ask.
“Certainly,” he says with a low laugh. “Technically, I’m supposed to be invisible. Mr. Burns is a busy man with a big company to manage. He doesn’t make a lot of small talk.”
“That’s sad,” I whisper too loudly.
“Eh—it isn’t half bad. He pays me better than any other place would in this town. Special delivery, I hear?”
“Right. Do you need the address?” I settle into the cushy seat, wondering why I feel so jittery.
“He sent it to me earlier. No worries, I’ll get you there. I’m Louis Hughes, by the way. I’ve been with Mr. Burns for a long time.”
That gets my attention.
I offer a muted “Thanks,” but that’s not what’s on my mind.
Does Louis know Lincoln’s origin story?
Does he have insights into what makes the man tick that most people don’t?
I wonder.
And I wonder a lot of things as the car slices through the cool, dark night.
Like what the hell happened to make Lincoln Burns such a rude enigma wrapped in the grumpy mask he wields like a shield against the entire flipping world.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” I ask roughly twenty minutes later.
“Yes, ma’am. This is the address,” Louis says.
“But it’s...a medical supply store?”
“Yes, ma’am, I do believe you’re right.” If Louis is as surprised as I am, he doesn’t show it.
I’m so confused.
“What does Lincoln need here? He’s like the poster boy of good health.” Or a genuine underwear model.
“I believe he’s been here before, so it isn’t the first time,” Louis says cryptically.
I wait, but the man never elaborates.
My brows knit together.
“Okay, well—maybe it’s something for his mom.” That’s the only rational guess I have.
“Could be. I’m not sure. Mr. Burns is an exceptionally private man when it comes to his personal affairs,” Louis tells me.
More like a walking vault. But since there’s only one way to find out...
I tell Louis I’ll be back soon, climb out, and head inside the store.
There’s an older lady in a wheelchair being pushed by a woman wearing pink scrubs. A large, older man with silvering hair behind the counter hands them a bag and they’re on their way.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
“Yes. I’m here to pick up an order for Lincoln Burns.”
“Ah, Mr. Burns, sure. I’ll go grab it. One minute.” He disappears behind a door marked Employees Only and comes back holding a long box. “Usually, it takes a little while longer to be properly fitted, but since we had the measurements on file and verified, I used those per Mr. Burns’ instructions. However, if this is uncomfortable or he has any trouble walking, just let us know so we can adjust it ASAP.”
He? Fitted for what? What are we talking about?
“Umm, okay—what is it?” I ask.
The guy stiffens and scratches his chin. “You don’t know? You’ll have to ask Mr. Emory or Mr. Burns about that, I suppose. Privacy regulations are awfully strict.”
“Emory?”
He looks at me reluctantly and shrugs.
My gaze drops to the box. A sticker with a barcode stares up at me.
Emory, Wyatt, pros. is typed above the bar code. In care of Lincoln Burns is handwritten under it.
What the actual hell is going on?
So maybe Burns only pretends to be a workaholic and he’s actually part of some bizarre art cult. I shake my head, knowing better than to get caught up in a writer brain story.
But if the box says Wyatt Emory, whatever I picked up isn’t for Mrs. Burns, and it’s not for Lincoln either. What’s he doing and who’s Wyatt?
I try to remember if I’ve ever heard that name before, if Lincoln ever slipped, but I’m totally blanking.
I know one thing.
Burns has a cinnamon roll obsession like no other, and he needs another batch. Are the two pickups tonight related in some weird way?
I’ve got a sixth sense twitching that almost knocks me flat.
Lincoln’s obsession with Regis rolls and the homeless must be tied to whatever’s in this box I’m holding. Although what a cinnamon roll has to do with a medical supply device, I can’t even fathom.
“Where to?” Louis asks once I’m back in the car.
“Sweeter Grind, please.”
My phone buzzes.
Dakota, this can’t go on forever. You gotta talk to me at some point. We grew up in the same fucking town. Our parents are still friends. Have a heart!
Oh, no, he didn’t.
But he did.
Jesus. He’s never going to give up and leave me alone until he runs out of dummy numbers, is he?
Were. They were friends, I send back bitterly.
Jay: Is that really how you want it?
I purse my lips. I know the worst thing I can do is keep giving him attention.
The second worst is letting his comments infiltrate my head, and I’ll be damned if I’m letting my crappy, cheating ex have that kind of control.
My fingers fly across the screen. No—but you made your choice. You made it like this in front of the entire town. Don’t put it on me, asshole.