Chapter 35
Harrison
Nothing prepares a man for the moment his children disappear.
Not SEAL training.
Not survival instincts.
Not twenty years believing you could handle anything.
Because this? I can’t handle this.
I race through the terminal, searching, searching...
I replay it over and over in my head.
Fuck, I only looked away for a second.
One. Second.
The food was still there.
Three drinks.
Three untouched burgers.
Fries drowning in enough ketchup that it might as well be soup, growing colder every time I circled back through the restaurant.
But the chairs were empty.
And every single time I picture them sitting there, eyes wide around Connor’s phone and completely safe, my stomach drops straight through the fucking floor.
I keep replaying it in my head like somehow I missed the exact second everything went wrong.
A clue.
An indication.
Anything.
Because if I loop through it enough, I’ll figure it out.
Maybe I’ll find them.
The terminal suddenly feels endless.
Too many people.
Too many exits.
Too many places for my children to vanish.
Or for someone to make them vanish.
“Connor!” I roar, completely out of my mind.
Nothing.
Not a sarcastic answer I’d kill for right now.
No Ollie climbing out from under an arcade machine because he found a dollar behind it.
No Snooki yelling surprise because this whole thing was secretly a game and they wanted to see me lose my shit.
I’d be so angry.
And so fucking grateful I’d drop to my knees right here in the terminal.
I shove through the crowds, half out of my mind.
How are people still casually walking around right now?
Move.
Jesus Christ, move.
Blood pounds violently in my ears.
“Ollie!”
Every cop I see without one of my kids beside them makes something hot and ugly rise in my chest.
I want to grab them.
Shake them.
Demand what the fuck they’re doing about it.
But some tiny rational piece of my brain reminds me they’re doing all they can.
That I’m usually the calm one in these situations, steadying some other poor bastard whose world caved in.
So I pass them and keep going.
“Snooki!”
Her name rips out of me loud enough to turn heads all over the terminal.
People stare.
Good.
Look.
Help me find my kids.
My throat’s gone raw now, every word scrapes out desperate.
A businessman glances up from his laptop.
A woman pushing a stroller shakes her head apologetically before continuing on with her life.
With her child safely beside her.
My pulse goes nuclear.
I yank out my phone and call Connor again.
Straight to voicemail.
Again.
I already checked Find My Phone.
Last known location?
The restaurant.
No, you fucking useless app, they are not there.
I know because I’ve already circled back there three times praying they magically appeared.
That somehow I missed them.
I did miss them.
The thought nearly destroys me.
I almost crush the phone in my hand trying to hold myself together.
Goddammit.
Connor knows better than to shut his phone off.
Which means one of two things happened.
Either he turned it off on purpose…
Or somebody else did.
The thought nearly stops my heart.
I shove it away and call again.
And I’ll keep calling every few minutes even though it’s always the same.
“This is Connor. Leave a message.”
I clear my throat and leave one more message into the void.
“Connor, it’s Dad. Pick up.”
Pause.
“Buddy, call me back.”
My breath shakes hard enough I barely recognize my own voice.
“Please I just need to know where you are and—”
Beep.
“If you are finished recording—”
The robotic voice nearly sends me through the fucking wall.
I hang up hard enough to crack the screen, and the whole sadistic ritual starts again.
Another lap through the terminal.
Another frantic scan of faces.
Another surge of hope every time I spot a kid in a blue jacket or a little girl with dark wavy hair.
It’s them.
It has to be them.
I spot a teenager about Connor’s height.
“Connor!”
I shove through the crowd, then I stop short.
He turns and…
It’s not him.
Hope dies so fast it physically hurts.
“Sir?”
An airport cop approaches fast, one hand near his radio. “You’re shouting the terminal down.”
Is this asshole serious right now?
“My kids are gone.”
“We’re handling it.”
I gesture wildly around us. “Then find my children.”
“Sir, do you have recent photos? We can push them to airport monitors.”
Photos?
I pull them up and nearly fucking break.
Connor fishing last summer.
Ollie covered head-to-toe in brownie batter.
Snooki asleep on my chest.
My eyes blur hard enough I can barely see the photos anymore.
I need to hear Ollie talking too loud and Snooki laughing and Connor pretending he’s too old for hugs.
He will never, ever, be too old for hugs.
The officer carefully takes the phone from my hand and forwards the photos to another number.
“We’re going to find them.”
He stays calm. Professional.
And I want to throat punch him for it.
I keep trying to tell myself it’ll be okay.
Even from the hotel, Hannah was so calm when I called her, like she could hold the entire world together through sheer force of will. Hold me together.
Mrs. D. and Zac were already making calls, rallying the cavalry, letting everyone know.
Knowing Mark, he’s probably pulling security footage from satellites as we speak.
We have money.
Resources.
Connections.
More surveillance capability than some governments.
So where the fuck are my kids?
But my mind keeps trying to go somewhere dark and—
No.
Stop it.
“Mr. Evans?”
I barely hear the guy.
Or the radios crackling around me with:
“…reviewing security footage…”
“…possible exits…”
And why the fuck does he keep saying, “Sir, stay calm”?
Somebody grabs my arm.
The entire terminal tilts sideways and it takes me a second to realize I’m hyperventilating.
And I can’t stop.
I’ve already started bargaining.
With God.
With fate.
With the only angel in heaven I know.
Please, Cecile.
Please… help me find our babies.
And because my dead wife apparently enjoys irony, the next voice I hear is the last one I expect.
“What’s going on, New York?”
I look up.
Tall.
Ball cap.
Sunglasses.
Chase fucking Cartwright.
Before my brain can fully jump tracks from my missing children to my irrational hatred of this guy orbiting my wife, the officer answers him.
“Have you seen these children?”
He shows Chase the photos.
“I know them.”
Chase stares at the phone in disbelief. “The kids are missing?”
No shit.
“What happened?” The man with the punchable face asks.
Oh my God.
“My kids are missing!” I shout loud enough half the terminal turns again.
All the color drains from Chase’s face.
“Shit.”
Between the idiot cop and the idiot Cartwright, I don’t have time for this.
I start moving again.
Fast.
Chase falls in beside me. “What do you need me to do?”
“You?” I snort. “Nothing.”
“I can help.”
I pick up the pace through the crowds.
He keeps up surprisingly well considering he’s dragging a suitcase that keeps thump-thump-thumping behind him.
“You want to help? Fix your fucking annoying suitcase.”
“Let me help you.”
“You really want to help?” I fire back. “Ditch the damn suitcase and move faster.”
Instead he thumps alongside me even faster.
He taps the thing in his ear.
“Hey, sis. We have a situation.”
I glare at him.
“You’re calling your sister?” I mutter. My missing kids are not a situation.
They’re a national fucking emergency.
“Crisis management is sort of her thing. She can help.” He keeps in step because for as tall as I am, he’s just as tall. “Check with terminal security,” he says. “Keep me posted. Anything I can do, I will.”
I know he’s just trying to help.
And I know I’m being an asshole.
But I don’t care.
I hate that he’s a decent guy.
I hate how close he is to Pix.
And I especially hate that right now, with my entire world collapsing around me, I would give anything to have her here right now.
“Go away,” I bark.
Chase ignores that completely.
“You’re not in your right mind right now.” He adjusts his pace to keep beside me as I cut through the terminal. “Leaving you alone would feel wildly irresponsible.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” He scans the crowd beside me like we’re suddenly a team.
For the record, we’re not.
“Ava would straight up murder me if I bailed on you right now. I’m helping whether you want it or not.”
Something ugly twists deep in my gut.
“Why?” I scoff. “Because you’re trying to get in her pants?”
Chase snorts.
“We were roommates for years.” He scans another wave of faces moving through the terminal. “Trust me, if I wanted to get in Ava’s pants, it would’ve happened already.”
Hasn’t this asshole heard?
I have anger management issues.
Why is he still talking?
“But it never did,” he says. “Because she matters more than that.”
Wow. This guy has the survival instincts of a golden retriever chasing a grenade.
I cut hard around the next corridor.
The faster I move, the faster he moves.
And the faster that stupid suitcase thumps behind us.
Until finally, I lose it.
I spin, grab him by the shirt, and slam him against the nearest wall hard enough nearby travelers gasp.
Which, apparently, means absolutely nothing to Chase Cartwright.
The asshole barely even reacts.
Because, right, he’s eye-level with me and apparently trained in twelve different ways to kill a man with his bare hands.
His gaze searches my face for one long second before he slowly presses a steadying hand on my shoulder.
Not defensive.
Not aggressive.
“We’re going to find them,” he says.
And just like that, all the rage collapses into something so much worse.
Pure, choking fear.
Because what if we don’t?
A passerby stumbles over the suitcase Chase dropped in the middle of the terminal and nearly eats the floor.
“Sorry,” Chase mutters automatically, grabbing the suitcase and hauling it upright.
And that’s when I see it.
Purple hardshell.
Sugar skull stickers.
Stuffed so full the zipper’s fighting for its life.
Pix’s suitcase.
My entire brain stalls out.
“Why do you have her suitcase?” I demand.
“I was about to check it for her before I found you having a complete meltdown in Terminal B.”
My pulse hammers hard against my ribs.
Iceland.
Jesus Christ.
She’s leaving for Iceland today.
I step back.
I was going to fix this.
I just… needed more time.
“But… Pix isn’t leaving for three more days.”
Chase blows out a breath. “She moved up her flight.” He drags off his ball cap. “I’m guessing it has something to do with a certain idiot lumberjack she happens to be in love with.”
That lands like a punch to the chest.
He throws up a hand. “But she refuses to talk about it.”
I blink as puzzle pieces scatter all around me.
The beefed-up security.
Airport cops suddenly flooding the terminal and actually available to help.
And Chase Cartwright wearing sunglasses indoors so nobody recognizes him.
I remember the kids huddled around Connor’s phone during lunch.
“The security…” I say slowly. “They’re here for Ava?”
Chase nods once. “My sister arranged extra protection. Apparently public heartbreak turns paparazzi into rabid raccoons at a buffet.” He gestures around the terminal. “It’s not beneath them to buy discount tickets just to get inside.”
Chase looks at me, realization hitting him at the exact same moment.
“If your kids know Ava’s in this airport…”
Hope explodes through my chest so fast it nearly drops me to my knees.
“Wild horses couldn’t keep them away,” I finish hoarsely.
Ava.
The kids went looking for Ava.
“Where is she?” I demand.
Chase points down the terminal.
“The lounge. This way.”