Arrabella
Two Days, Twelve Hours To Impact
No Patrick.
She sits up sharply.
His pillow is untouched, the sheets still smooth. He never came back? Panic scrabbles at the edges of her mind. What happened? What did she black out this time? A memory slams her—Poppy. The articles. Waiting for Patrick to return.
So where is he? Fear surges through her fog. She gets up, checks the bathroom. Empty. No sign of him in the hot tub outside, not in the plunge pool.
She can’t see any sign in the suite that he’s been back at all. She grabs her phone. There are no messages, no missed calls. No response to her last text. His earlier words ring through her mind:
I’ll agree to see her tonight, but in the morning I’m off this boat in Crete. Don’t try to change my mind.
She grabs her phone, hits the “call” icon. She pushes a tangle of hair back from her face as she waits for him to pick up.
It kicks straight to voicemail.
Frustration bites.
She tries again.
Once more, it goes directly to voicemail. She leaves a message.
“Patrick—hi. Is everything okay? Please let me know where you are.”
She follows with a text, echoing her plea.
Please call ASAP. Love you. Xoxox.
Arrabella goes into the shower. Hot water sluices over her, but sick worry mushrooms in her gut. She steps out of the shower, wraps a towel around her body, reaches again for her phone on the bathroom counter.
Still nothing from Patrick.