Page 118 of Take Hold of Me

Wills

Isshe here or on another continent? Given how she’s thrown herself back into modeling, there’s no telling where on earth she could be. Literally.

How can I get her back if I don’t know where to look? An inkling of a memory tickles my brain. Before, when we were together, she sent me an email with her schedule.

Feels like ages ago.

I pull out my phone, searching through my emails. My thumb stops, and I open up one with the subject line of “Travel.”Please, please, please, let the schedule go out this far.

I scroll through all of the September dates.Yes!My eyes zero in on today—Tuesday, October 5th. She’s flying to LA from Paris, and her plane arrives at 5:30 pm. That’s an hour from now.

I run out the back exit without saying anything to anyone. I need to hurry if I’m going to meet her plane, especially in rush hour traffic. Jumping into my Jeep, I screech out of the parking lot.

On the freeway, my forward momentum ceases. I bang on the steering wheel, weaving in and out of cars. After a couple of minutes, I can’t even weave. Traffic has come to a dead stop. Smog seems to be thick up ahead, echoing my darkening thoughts.

“Fuck!” I bang my head against the headrest. Why is LA living up to its reputation as having the worst traffic?

With one eye on the clock, I look for an opening to change lanes, but one never comes. In sheer frustration, I flip on the radio and soon am tapping my fingers to the beat of an Aerosmith song. I move maybe a half a foot. Queen comes up next, but I can’t relax enough to enjoy my favorite song.

I need to get to Ems.

When the song ends and I’ve moved another ten feet, I want to leap out of my skin and teleport to LAX. I’ll never make it to the airport in time. Never.

“We interrupt our broadcast with some breaking news.” I reach for the dial to shut off the radio—I don’t need to hear whatever’s going on. I have bigger fish to fry, namely getting my girl back.

“A plane crash landed at LAX.”

My fingers fly away from the radio, which now has my full attention.

“A flight from Paris to LAX crashed…”

The announcer continues but I can’t process her words. A flight from Paris? My heartrate speeds up so fast that I could join Dad in the hospital with my own heart attack.

It can’t be her plane. Itcan’t.

My eyes bounce from my windshield to my rearview mirror, then side view mirror. When they return to the front, a plume of black smoke rises up in the distance. From the direction of LAX.

No. This is not happening.

My body tenses with the need to do something. Shutting off the radio, I put my blinker on and head to the shoulder, driving past the parked cars on the freeway and take the exit, not caring that what I’m doing is illegal. I pull into a grocery store parking lot and throw the Jeep into park.

With shaky fingers, I grab my phone and dial Ems. It goes straight to voicemail. Like when a phone is off.

I take a deep breath. Her phone can be off for any number of reasons. Maybe she forgot to charge it.

Maybe she had to turn it off during her flight.

I search for the airline’s number and hit “send.” I get a fast busy signal. Twenty times in a row.

Shit.

I run my hand through my hair, yanking at the short ends. Who else can I call? Think. I open my contacts and call Price Modeling Agency. A receptionist answers.

“Can you please tell me if Emilie Dubois was on the flight from Paris that just crashed? This is her bodyguard.” My voice cracks on the last word.

A whole lot of noise crackles over the phone line, as if several people are in reception answering the phones. “I’m sorry, but we do not have any information at this time.” My hand goes numb as the phone slips from my fingers. I stare at nothing, my mind completely blank.

Except for one thought that plays on a loop—Everyone you love dies. And I do love her.

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