Page 201 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

Wayne

I know it’s the same sender before I even open it.

Not because of the name—there isn’t one—but because of the way the subject line sits there, like it’s already decided something for me.

You should have listened.

I let the laptop sit open on the workbench, the noise of the garage carrying on around me as if nothing’s changed. Hank’s arguing with a stripped bolt. Fletcher’s torch hisses. The radio cuts in and out between stations, unable to decide what it wants to be.

Everything feels, looks normal.

It isn’t.

I wipe my hands on a rag out of habit more than anything else, then click the email open.

It’s longer this time, messier. The first one was a warning—this one is someone losing their grip.

I told you she was trouble. You think you’re smarter than everyone else? You think you can just ignore what she is? You can’t ignore someone who behaves like a whore for anyone and everyone. You can’t have that around you, you know? Have you seen what was said about her online? You should actually look it up instead of just ignoring me.

My jaw tightens as I read, taking it all in. If someone’s taken the time to write all this and send it to me, then I’m going to take the time to understand exactly what they think they’re doing.

She’s lying to you. She lied to everyone. That’s what she does. You’ve got a kid in that house. You think that’s safe? If so, you should have your kid taken away. That is some crazy, dangerous shit.

I feel sick. Why is this shit still happening?

You don’t even know what she’s been doing behind your back. How many men she’s been with. She’s a bigger slut than you’ll ever know. She’s good at hiding who she is under that prissy, sweet-girl act. What kind of example is that to a kid? It’s gross.

“Fucking hell,” I mutter to myself as I keep reading.

You should have listened the first time. You still have a chance to fix this before it gets worse, before she drags you down with her. You’ll regret ignoring my warnings if you don’t.

There’s a rhythm to it now. Whoever wrote it is circling the same thoughts, trying to convince themselves as much as me.

You don’t know her like I do.

That’s the line that matters.

Everything else is noise.

“Wayne.”

Fletcher cuts in from my left, suddenly much closer than he was a minute ago.

I glance up.

He’s already watching me, mask pushed up, reading me the way he reads everything else. Patient, observant, waiting for the part that matters.

I turn the laptop toward him without saying anything.

He steps in, wipes his hands, and reads.

His expression doesn’t change much, but I see his reaction in the way his shoulders settle, the way his eyes sharpen just slightly as he reaches the end.

“Same idiot?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“We need to get Rex here,” Fletcher insists. “We need to deal with everything together now.”