KATHERINE

I sent a text to Stephanie, my receptionist, when Erland left the house with Bella in tow. Even though Matt had let them use his guitar and recording equipment to work on a new song after morning service, they still complained about not having "what they need" to finish the music. To be fair, maybe the construction from the neighbor's house could've been getting in the way. But I still couldn't shake the feeling of dread that came over me whenever Erland left the house without me.

"He's a good driver," Matt remarked from over his afternoon cup of coffee. His handsome grin did little to diminish the squeezing feeling in my chest.

"I know." I stared at the wooden door, but struggling to decipher what I wanted to say.

"He's a good kid, Kat," he said. "You've done a good job."

My gaze shot to my fiancé with shock. "I didn't raise him, Matt. Mom did."

He set his cup down, and I knew by the expression of his face he was struggling just as much as me on figuring out what to say. "You say that, but..."

What he wanted to say dawned on me. I crossed my arms. "You think I act like his mom."

He shot me an awkward look, as if to say, You said it, not me.

I sighed. Glanced back at the door, out the window, where the dust clouds of the driveway were settling down to the gravel again. "He's got a girlfriend," I said. "If Mom's not looking out for him, who knows what they'll be up to."

Matt sipped from his coffee.

"I know it's not my job," I continued, "but you were young once, you know."

Matt made a show of looking offended. "Once? Why, Kat, I thought you loved me for my youthful glow. I'm a month younger than you, I'll have you know."

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn't help grinning at his words. "Stop reminding me."

Matt reached over the counter and prepared another cup of coffee—half cream, half coffee, with five sugars. Then he passed it to me. My cheeks flushed with warmth at how he'd memorized how I liked my coffee, though he himself drank it black.

As if sensing that my anger had been pacified, he rested his elbows on the counter, his chin on his interlocked fingers, and looked at me directly. "I was exactly as you think Erland is," he said, his expression sober. "But you have to let him live. If he makes a mistake, he knows that he has to answer to God, not you. I didn't have that when I was younger, or I wouldn't have been so stupid, so he'll figure it out. Eventually," he added with a wry grin.

I had to admit he had a point, but it didn't do anything to alleviate the fears that coursed through me like shocks of static electricity. A jolt could send my hand to reach for my phone. Or run to the door. The past two years had been difficult, in the transition of working out the company and Gramps and difficult cases that Matt has worked with, but it's all worked out in the end. At least, up until now. Even if I couldn't exactly trust Erland's boyish mind, I could trust God, right?

The next morning, it was Erland's turn to get the car. So he dropped me off at Wayward Publishing before continuing on to Harvey High School. I entered the first floor of the glass-faced building, waved at the receptionist, and rode the elevator to the thirty-first floor.

At the top, I was greeted by Stephanie, who jumped out from behind her desk, face twisted with worry. "Miss Malloy, did you get my message yesterday?"

I nodded, ignoring the flush of embarrassment that hit me now that I saw how riled up she was over it. "Yes, thank you."

After they'd come back, Erland had been somewhat miffed that Stephanie was poking around the recording studio. She'd entered under the pretense of "checking the inventory" but Erland didn't buy it. He didn't mention if he thought I was the one that sent her, but by the way he pulled out of the parking lot this morning—without so much as a wave—made me think he was onto the whole thing. I made a mental note to talk about it later.

"Can you tell Adelaide I want to see her when she gets in?" I asked her.

Stephanie nodded.

Adelaide was the woman that had taken over the Public Relations of Wayward after Nicolas stepped down. She'd kept herself clean of whatever fraud was going on within the company, and she even helped dig up some evidence—some of it coming from one of her cousins that was employed as an editor. Now, she'd somehow managed to restore Wayward's reputation. "Present the truth" was her philosophy, "but with a spin of humility and no tolerance for the crime."

It had saved Wayward's hide from more than a few lashings from the news. But not all of them.

At least the teen initiative was picking up already, especially now that the public saw the first printing of Wayward Teens: Back Home last June. Bella was working to get out an album by the time she and Erland graduate, but with all the workload from school, I worried she was losing her focus. At least, for now, Erland was on track.

I strode down the hall to my office, which was across from our new CEO Harry Saffold. He'd been hired about a year ago, after almost six months of interviews and vetting. He'd been the only one to make it through the process, or at least have the patience to, and he worked day and night. Many times I'd come in late in the evening to get Erland a guitar, only to find light spilling out of Harry's office.

Truth be told, for such a hardworking man, he was often getting gifts from his wife at the office. I had only caught a glimpse of her once, with honey-blonde hair cropped to a bob, her genuine smile eclipsing the wrinkles in her face. She seemed far more than just two years younger than Harry, who had to go bald after what little hair he had started to turn white.

"I know I'm older," he'd said, "but not ancient!"

At least he had a sense of humor. Between him, Adelaide, and the Board of Directors (all full of new people), Wayward was a new business entirely. Gone were the stark, black and white modern decorations, now replaced with colorful chairs, pops of abstract art, and even an entire floor dedicated to a teen creative space.

At the door of my office, I realized Harry's office was empty, but sometimes he was busy helping his wife with the kids. He had four, which would be about as many as I would want. My stomach flipped at the thought of all the wedding preparations still to be done.

Betsy wouldn't leave me out to dry on the arrangements, even if she was mad. I knew that much. She'd bought me a ticket to see Mom after her accident without thinking twice, and she'd covered more than was fair with the wedding expenses, starting with the cake. I could've covered it too, but it would've taken longer in saving up between the monthly salary the board had given to me as owner of the company.

Adelaide had offered to let me name my price, but with taking a few days off a week, I couldn't make more than half the executives who labored every day.

The morning passed quickly, between meeting with Adelaide to talk about the Wayward Teen publication debut in the fall and studying the Public Relations of the company. We'd done good in distancing from Chase Industries in the first few months after everything blew up, but now with Betsy at the helm, we had a few projects we could break ground on. Matt came in during his lunch break to bring me some coffee and a salad, and we chatted briefly before he had to go again.

All too soon, it was 2pm—and it hit me that the lights were still not on in Harry's office. I called his work number, but it immediately went to voicemail.

"Stephanie," I said, walking up to the receptionist as she was taking a big bite of her bagel. "Has Harry told you anything of why he hasn't come in today?"

Her cheeks, extended from the bite, turned red. She shook her head vigorously, trying to chew and mumble something at the same time.

"Nothing? Really?"

She bobbed her head up and down. Finally, she swallowed and, gasping, said, "He usually leaves a note of some kind, even an email, but nothing. He did mention his wife had some kind of doctor's appointment today. Maybe that's it."

"Hm." Maybe it could be, but after all that happened with Octavia, it was hard to believe off the jump. Maybe Stephanie was thinking the same thing, because she offered to call him again.

Just as she lifted the phone to her ear, and I could hear the faint ring of the tone over the speaker, my own phone jingled.

Stephanie's eyebrows arched in surprise. I shook my head. Mom, I mouthed, and stepped back into my office to answer her call.

"Hey." I sat at the edge of my desk, feeling the hard wood dig into my thighs.

"Hey, Katherine." Mom's voice sounded gravelly over the phone, and I winced at the sound. "Where are you?"

"At the office." I glanced at the clock on the wall. Could Gramps be dead? The thought, for some reason, wasn't satisfying or peaceful. If anything, it made me queasy.

"Can you come down to the hospital? Dad's awake, and he needs to talk to you."