Ryan.
“Hey,” I answered, balancing the phone between my shoulder and ear while reaching for a dish towel. “You’re calling early. Did your meeting finish sooner?”
“Yeah,” he replied.
Something about his voice tightened every nerve in my body. Not cold. Not warm. Just strained, like a rope about to snap.
“Can you come to my mother’s tonight? Around six?”
I frowned, glancing at the half-cooked dinner simmering on the stove. “Tonight? Patricia’s hosting dinner on a Tuesday? That’s unusual.”
“She decided last minute,” he said quickly. “It’s important, Lauren. We need to discuss some things as a family. Just come.”
My stomach tightened. “Ryan… is everything okay?”
A pause.
Then: “Just be there.”
The call disconnected.
I stood motionless in the quiet kitchen long after the line went dead. Noah babbled happily, reaching for another strawberry, completely unaware that our lives had already begun shifting beneath us.
I convinced myself I was overthinking things. Patricia loved dramatic “family meetings.” Control was practically her religion.
But when I pulled into the Bennett Estate driveway at 5:45, my chest dropped.
Ryan’s SUV was already there. His sister Melissa’s convertible sat beside it. Uncle David’s truck. Cousin Tyler’s sedan — the one he only drove to funerals and Christmas parties.
