Page 158 of The Americana Playbook

617-555-3542

I was, but her parents showed up. She’s not answering.

Parker doesn’t pick up when I call either.

I’m on my way home now. I’ll have someone check on her.

But the person I call—Agent Samuels—doesn’t pick up either. And that has me on my feet and waiting at the door of the plane before we’ve even fully stopped on the tarmac. It has me taking the stairs by two until I get on the ground, where I all-out sprint to my truck, ignoring my name as it’s called by teammates. I only stop myself from flooring it out of the parking lot when my phone chimes with another message. I assume it’s Parker.

Coach

Tomorrow morning 9am at the Hilton. I’ll send you the room number.

I toss my phone to the passenger seat and grip the steering wheel with an ironclad hold. As I zoom out of the lot and finally merge onto the highway, I wonder if I saw someone I remotely care about acting like a raging lunatic, practically jumping out of a plane before it’s even come to a full stop, would I start that text differently?

Maybe a good starting point would beIs everything okay?

The answer is no, and for the thirty-five-minute drive back to my apartment, I run through every possible scenario that might make things not okay.

Parker was kidnapped.

Parker left.

Parker is hurt.

Parker needs me, and I’m not there.

I’m running so fast down the hall from the elevator that I don’t even notice my doorway is clear, vacant of agents, until I reach for the handle and find it locked. This might be the first time I’ve used the key myself since the Spring.

And this might be the first time I’ve entered the space and heardcrying.

I hurry to her room, reaching for the knob. It doesn’t turn. The door doesn’t budge.

“Parker?”

Nothing.

I bang on the door with the side of my closed fist. “Parker! Open up, it’s me.”

But she doesn’t, no matter how loudly I call her name. The crying never stops.

I stand back, eyeing the door, deciding to break it. And just when I take a step back, there’s the sound of a click, the clanging of metal.

And there Parker is—puffy and red faced butthere.

“I’m sorry, I was about to get in the shower.” She tugs at the collar of her robe—ofmyrobe. “I didn’t hear you over the water.”

“What happened?” I say, trying to catch my breath. “I called you and?—”

“My phone might be on silent.”

That still isn’t an answer to my question. “What happened?” I force out through a tight jaw, and all Parker does is shake her head. “No, no, don’t do that again.”

She focuses on me. “Don’t do what?”

“Lock me out.” I look at her hand on the knob, but the last thing I’m talking about is the door. “You were crying.”

Parker nods. “I was, but…”

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