5
I march out the bathroom door and enter the main hallway. Steam billows in behind me from the shower. I shudder, remembering the image of the real Lincoln screaming in the mirror. He looked hurt. In agony. Bands of worry tighten around my head.
Where is my husband?
An image appears in my mind: the smarmy creepster I woke up next to this morning. I decide to give him a new name, Evil Lincoln, mostly because Douchebag Lincoln is too much of a mouthful. All my anxiety instantly transforms into white-hot rage. How dare someone kidnap my guy? I head off in search of my fake husband and some real answers. The last time I saw Evil Lincoln, he was in our—excuse me, my—bedroom. I kick open the door. “Howdy, honey.”
No one is there.
“Lincoln? Sweetums?”
Still no answer.
That’s a bit of a bu
