The Ending I Want
Page 100

“I’ll do everything I can.” And I will.
I hang up the phone, and immediately, I dial Taylor’s number.
Voicemail.
Fuck!
Frustrated, I hang up.
“Taylor left the hospital?”
I’m guessing Grandpa caught wind of the conversation I just had. After all of his attempts to convince me that this isn’t truly what she wants, even he now looks worried.
And it makes me feel sick.
“She walked out a short time ago.”
I’m moving to the door and out of the room. He’s following me.
“You know where she is?”
“I know where she’s heading.” I yank open the front door and step through it. I turn back to him. “She’s going home. And I’m going to stop her before she does.”
I’ve pulled out of my grandpa’s driveway, and I’m speeding down the road when my phone rings again.
The number shows up on my dash; it’s one of my hotels in London. The one Taylor’s staying at. They were under instructions to call me if she checked out of the hotel.
I connect the call through the Bluetooth.
“Speak now, and make it quick.”
There’s a slight pause, and then a male voice says, “Um, sir, it’s Patrick Squires calling. I’m the day manager at—”
“I know where you’re calling from. What I want is for you to tell me if you’re calling about Taylor Shaw.”
I take a hard turn and then slam my foot back down on the gas.
“Yes, sir, I am. I saw there was an instruction to call you if she checked out—”
“She’s checked out?”
A brief pause, and then he says, “Yes, sir.”
“When?”
“About an hour ago.”
“An hour ago! And you’re only calling me now!” My hands white-knuckle the steering wheel.
“I’m sorry, sir. Perrie, the girl who checked her out, is new with us. She must not have seen the notice that was on Miss Shaw’s file. I only noticed that she’d gone because I was working through today’s departures. I asked Perrie if she had called you—”
“She’s fired.”
“Yes, sir,” he says quietly.
I blow out a breath.
An hour ago. She left a fucking hour ago. It takes about that time to get from the hotel to Heathrow, depending on traffic. She could already be at the airport. And I don’t know our fucking flight itineraries to Boston.
Fuck!
I take the exit onto the M40, heading for London. Getting on the motorway, I press my foot down hard, pushing the car as fast as she’ll go.
“Sir?” Patrick’s voice comes in the car.
I forgot for a moment that I was still on the phone.
“Did Taylor get a cab when she left the hotel?” I ask him, my voice hard.
“Yes, sir. I asked Martin, our porter, before I called you. He said he put her in a cab, but he doesn’t know where she was heading. Sir, I am sor—”
I cut the call off. I swear to God, if I hear one more person say they’re sorry today, I’ll fucking kill them with my bare hands.
Except Taylor.
Taylor can say whatever the hell she wants to me. She can say sorry as many times as she wants, so long as there is something at the end of it…a chance. A chance that she will change her mind.
I search through my contacts, looking for the number for our ticket desk in terminal five at Heathrow Airport. Driving and looking through my phone while I hit close to a hundred miles an hour in the outside lane probably isn’t the best idea.
I find the number and hit Call, focusing completely on the road and getting to Taylor.
The phone rings, echoing around my car, and then the call connects. “Hunter Airways Ticket Desk, Amber speaking. How may I help you?”
“Amber, it’s Liam Hunter calling.”
Silence.
Then, she says, “Liam…Hunter, as in—”
“The guy who pays your salary.”
“Oh. Wow. Hello, sir. How can I help you today?”
“I need you to tell me when the next flight to Boston is?” I check the time on the dash—twenty-eight minutes past one.
“Let me just check.”
I hear tapping on keys.
“Okay, the next flight with us out to Boston is…at five p.m. Check-in opens in half an hour.”
I know Taylor’s return flight is tomorrow, but she could have changed that.
“Okay, Amber, I need you to tell me if a Taylor Shaw has tried to change her ticket from tomorrow’s flight to today. Or if she’s even bought a new ticket. Basically, I just need to know if she’s trying to get on that five o’clock flight.”
There’s a slight pause. “Sir, I can’t give out flight information on passengers. Our policy states—”
“I know what the policy states. I fucking wrote the thing. Now, tell me if Taylor is trying to fly out of Heathrow today.”
“Sir…it’s just…I know you say you’re you, but how can I be sure it is actually you? You could be anyone.”
I let out a growl of frustration. “What’s your surname?”
Another pause. “Crawford.”
“Okay, Amber Crawford, when you’re getting your final pay slip and being escorted from the premises in about, oh, say, ten minutes, then you’ll fucking know it was me. Now, either tell me if she’s tried to change her flight, or I can fire you, and then you can put me on the phone with somebody who will do the job I’m fucking paying them to do!”
Another brief pause, and then I hear the clicking of keys.