Escape from Mr. Whitman (Emma and Theodore) novel Chapter 241

Ms. Brown caught on, smiled, and left first.

Emma turned away to answer her phone. “Theodore, have you lost your mind?”

Theodore’s voice came through, rough and hoarse. “Emma… Emma…”

“If you have something to say, just spit it out!”

“Emma, I feel awful. I’m really sick…” His voice was not only raspy, but thick and slurred, as if he was barely conscious.

“Theodore, if there’s nothing else, I’m hanging up. Your being sick has nothing to do with me.”

“Emma, please, don’t… I really don’t feel well. I’m sick.”

Emma almost laughed. “You’re sick? And you’re calling me? Theodore, have you lost your sense?”

“I need some water… my head hurts… I can’t get up…”

Was he even hearing her? It was like talking to a brick wall.

But Emma finally understood. He was so out of it, the only person he could remember to call was her—Mrs. Whitman. “Theodore, let me guess, you want someone to wait on you, is that it?”

“Emma, I really feel terrible…”

“If you’re that miserable, call your darling Cecilia! She knows the alarm code anyway. Let her come take care of you!” Wasn’t she supposed to be the love of his life?

But Theodore just croaked out, “Cecilia? I can’t ask Cecilia… I can’t trouble her with this…”

Emma hung up on him right then and there.

Typical Theodore. An entire ocean between them, and she’d long since moved on—she didn’t even feel hurt anymore—yet somehow, he still managed to get under her skin. So, Cecilia is the precious princess who can’t be bothered, and Emma’s the old housemaid expected to clean up the mess?

“Emma!” Sebastian caught up to her from behind. He saw the look on her face and grinned, “What’s wrong? Who dared to upset our Emma?”

Emma shook her head, forcing a smile. “No one. Come on, let’s get some lunch.”

But as soon as she stepped inside, she noticed signs that someone was home.

“Mr. Whitman?” she called out.

A faint, muffled “Yeah,” came from one of the rooms.

He was home?

Fallon was startled. She told her daughter to stay put on the couch and hobbled toward the bedroom. “Sir, you’re home? I’m just here to gather my things—I’ll be gone soon…”

She paused, then added, “Thank you, sir, and thank you to Mrs. Whitman too, for all your kindness these past few years.”

There was no reply.

Something was off. Normally, Mr. Whitman would have come out by now, or at least said something more.

“Sir, are you alright?” she asked, concern creeping into her voice.