Everett Ogden was missing.

Perhaps that was a dramatic way to state it, but it was true enough. He was not in his room, nor was the cat. He was not at his work, though they had received notice that he would be taking a short and necessary leave of absence. He did not hold the world on his shoulders, so nobody minded much.

Truth be told, his world had fallen apart. One page of carefully written words in a familiar hand had profoundly wounded him, shattered his heart, and forced him from the world for a few days. Gideon had found him and brought him home.

Between the silence and the solitude, not to mention the caring company of Gideon and Illiana, Everett had found his bearings again. He landed topsy-turvy, but he landed all the same. It gave him the fortitude to respond to the slanderous tongue of the woman he had once loved. With her self-serving lies, she nearly destroyed him. Everett suspected that it was a crime of convenience, but it was a crime all the same. His family was furious with him.

It was nearly a week before he sat down and penned the letter. It was time to reclaim what was his. Anne had taken his love and left it unrequited. She had taken his family for her own. She had even stolen a piece of his innocence that he could never recover, not after this. That he could never have back, but he would love again, and he would not lose his family to her. Not without a fight.

And so it began.

One Month Later

Everett had waited nervously, though patiently, to hear back from the woman with the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen, the woman who was perhaps still his brother's wife (despite her massive indiscretion and her lying tongue). Life had resumed, in the way a life will. He went to work. He visited with his friends. He wrote, though it was difficult these days to produce anything joyful sounding. He laughed and slept and dreamed and walked and talked and bathed and sneezed and ate and drank and did all the things a person does.

That night, he'd eaten a couple of peanut butter sandwiches and had one cup of tea.

He unlocked the door to room two-oh and slipped inside, nearly stepping on the carefully addressed letter, even as he danced around somewhat to avoid stepping squarely on the tail of the mewing and exciteable young master Benedick. The poet set his beloved sketchbook on the nearest table, fed the cat, then picked up the letter, settling on his bed.

Anxiety. Fear. Worry. I do not want to open this.

Of course he had to, though. Everett knew that, so he tore open the envelope and unfolded the letter. The poet could hear his kitten purring madly over the joy of eating as he read carefully penned words, in that dear and familiar hand. He could feel his lips pull into a thin line as the blood rushed to his face with every word.

Everett,

Anne has informed us that she received a very boorish letter from you. You will cease with this childish behavior immediately. You most assuredly were not raised to ignore and then threaten the mother of your unborn child. If you cannot bring yourself to face the woman that you have so callously defiled, you will at least have the respect and honor that the good name of this family demands, and you will harass her no further. At least your poor brother John is stepping in where you are unable to, and despite that you have wronged your own kin, he seems quite willing to look after her, and the babe. He is heartbroken. Anne is terrified. Your mother is absolutely bereft.

I am severely disappointed.

Gran

He felt sick, so very sick as he read every word. Once, twice, three times over. Had his family seen the letter he had sent to Anne? It was likely that they had not. Everett took a very deep breath, but it did little to quell the awful feeling in his belly.

What was he going to do?