Page 54 of Code Word
It was bullshit like this that did my head in.
But I had a location. Well, I had a location of where Luke was yesterday, or earlier today. The news piece hadn’t said exactlywhenhe’d been spotted, but it was more information than I had before.
It was somewhere to start, anyway.
I felt better already. That lump in my gut seemed to ease a little, the heaviness lifted off my chest, and the lack of sleep over the last week hit me hard.
I pulled my cap down, pulled my face mask up, and closed my eyes.
Yes, Becca gave me her pink baseball cap from her car, and she found a new face mask in her glove compartment. She said it would help with the anonymity.
I reasoned that I looked like shit. Actually unshaven with scruffy hair and hadn’t slept in a week, I kinda looked homeless. I had zero luggage with me, traveling solo, and therefore it was highly unlikely anyone would recognize me.
The guy at TSA did, said he was a big fan, but I explained I was on the DL and about to miss my plane, so he rushed me through.
I was one of the last to board the plane, which wasn’t abad thing. The least amount of time on that plane, the better. My legs were too long and my patience was far too short.
And being visibly impatient and without any luggage or clothes was not a good idea at customs because they questioned me and looked me up and down. I thought for a minute they were going to deny me entry and I was starting to panic.
But then, of course, they knew who I was, and then more officers came and some other staff from somewhere. It took all my self-control not to lose my ever-loving shit because all I wanted to do was find Luke and I was so fucking close.
Yet oh so far.
“I’m not here as a singer or... My friend is missing,” I told them. It wasn’t an outright lie. “I’m here to find him and bring him home. I don’t plan on staying long. Please. You can call my manager at the company. She’ll verify everything.”
Well, I’d like to think myex-manager Amber would lie to a foreign government for me. Wasn’t too much to ask...
“Or my friend’s family. They asked me to come get him. His sister drove me to the airport. Or you can call my lawyers.”
I’m sure they’d love that.
They’d love to bill me for that.
The customs guy slid a piece of paper toward me and a hundred scenarios ran through my head.
Was I being denied entry?
Was I being bribed?
Did I have to pay someone?
Did I have to write my last fucking words?
“Can you autograph for me?” he said nervously, grin wide. “My daughter is a big fan.”
I blinked at him and had to remember to shut my mouth so I could speak.
“Oh. Of course.”
I scribbled my autograph, then a dozen others to waiting,smiling official faces, then I was handed back my passport and told to have a good trip.
“I hope you find your friend,” the customs guy said. “If he wants to be found.”
If he wants to be found . . .
What the fuck did that mean?
“Some people come here tonotbe found,” he said with a shrug. “Good luck.”
