jockeyed for a place.
Juggling my camera bag while I dug out my cell phone didn’t do much to endear me to my fellow passengers either. Since our flight out of Fairbanks, Alaska had been delayed, everyone wanted off, right now. People were pulling
out bags and resetting their various electronic devices.
Muted conversations swelled around me while the toddler took advantage of
his mother’s inattention to flash me a gap-tooth grin. I wiggled my fingers in return. His grin widened, at least until his mom distracted him with a stuffed toy.
Thumbing my phone’s screen, I discovered seven missed calls and two voice
mails. Nerves tightened.
Numbers scrolled across my incoming call list. The first one held a 619-area
code. Coronado, California. It repeated twice. My stomach lurched and old anger
snarled. I scrolled past it like all the others I’d received in the last few months, and then found the one I needed. It was listed four times.
Damn it!
My stomach roiled.
I hit the icon to retrieve my voicemails, then tucked the phone between my
shoulder and ear. It made pulling my battered backpack from the overhead
compartment tricky. Finally getting it free, I settled the strap on my shoulder, only then able to reclaim my phone.
The awkward juggle allowed me to ignore the strange visual dance of
adverted glances from my fellow passengers. The burn scars curling under my jaw and dripping like delicate lace down my neck before disappearing under my
T-shirt were hard to miss. Hell, even I wasn’t used to them yet.
“Cyn? You need to call me as soon as you land.” Frantic and breathless, I almost didn’t recognize Kelsey’s voice. My fingers tightened on my phone.
“Look, there’s been a change of plans. I’m heading north to hole up and wait for
you.” Her harsh breathing was audible over the rumblings of the departing passengers as we shuffled to the exit. “Whoever’s been watching me, I think they got in my condo. You know that itch you talk about? Yeah, well it’s graduated to hives.” Her voice became muffled, and then cleared, “…not
comfortable sharing over the phone, so just hurry the hell up and get here, okay?”
The next message came from the same area code so I didn’t bother listening.
I hit speed dial, praying Kelsey would pick up. Her phone rang and went to voicemail. “Kels, it’s me. I’m on my way. Call me back.” I checked to see when
she called. Forty-five minutes ago.
Stuck in the exit shuffle, I hit the oven masquerading as the jetway at a stuttering run. Once there was room, I dodged through the zombie-like crowd of
departing passengers, ignoring the muttered complaints trailing in my wake.
Like I gave a shit right now.
Kelsey was an up-and-coming corporate lawyer in a Phoenix law firm and
the last person to panic. The underlying fear in her message scared the bejesus
out of me because we had both navigated the wonderfully warped world of
foster care with guts and bravado. That was until the Ardens took us in as teenagers.
My bags thumped against my shoulders and hips as my booted feet pounded
down the seemingly never-ending airport corridors. Exiting through the
automated doors, the sucking wall of a hundred-plus degrees of Phoenix summer
put a hitch in my step. I hopped on the shuttle for long-term parking.
As it made its way to where I parked my Jeep two and a half weeks ago, I
tried Kelsey’s number again. No answer. Next call was to my cabin up north.
The stupid machine picked up. “Kels? Are you there?” I waited, trying not to pant like a racehorse. Nothing. Sickening dread tightened my stomach muscles.
Third call was her condo in Tempe. Nothing.
