Carried Away - P. Dangelico Page 0,70

feelers, however, go up when I start to see news trucks from local stations parked all along Main Street.

I grab a few items that I need and forgo the rest. I need to get back to the Cottages as quickly as possible and snoop around to see if I can find out what this is about. Who knows, maybe Martha Stewart is in town or something.

I head for the kitchen, which is where I find Dad. He looks at me funny. “Have you seen Jake?”

Strange question. It’s just past noon. Jake usually paints until sundown. Unless it’s a Tuesday or Thursday, like today, then he’s coaching the kids, in which case he gets done around five.

Regardless, Dad’s got me worried now so I text him. Five minutes later, still no response. This is out of the ordinary. Jake always answers a text. He’s never not answered a text. I try to call but it goes straight to voicemail without ringing. He’s turned his phone off. My heart starts beating super fast, that old intuition telling me this is not a drill.

“I’m going to the rink. It’s a coaching day. Call me if he shows up here,” I tell my father and jump into the Mercedes.

All my fears are realized when I get to the Arena. The parking lot is swarming with news trucks and unmarked vehicles. Parking at the curb, I run to the door and have to fight a crowd of reporters six rows deep.

“Hey, they’re not letting anybody in,” one of them hollers at me.

“I’m a hockey mom,” I yell back.

The doors are locked. I bang and bang but I can’t see a soul. My anxiety level peaks at this point.

“What story are you guys all here for?” I ask one bleached blonde reporter once I escape the scrum.

“Pro hockey player. He was a really big deal a few years ago. One of the best. New evidence just emerged that he wasn’t driving the car that killed his teammate. The guy that died was.”

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.

I jump in the Mercedes and tear out of the parking lot, headed straight for the farmhouse. His Expedition isn’t in the driveway like it normally is, but I suspect he parked it in the garage to avoid detection. In fact, there isn’t a news van in sight.

The front door is locked so I go around the back. Again, no luck. I spy through the windows and see no one is home.

Dejected and riddled with anxiety, I get back in the car and call him again. It goes straight to voicemail. Either he doesn’t want to talk, or he doesn’t want to talk to me. Either way it sucks.

I’m distraught on the drive back home. Somehow, I know this is my fault. Maybe it was the article on the boys. Maybe it was someone at S.I. who decided to dig deeper into the details of the police report. Who knows. But I need to see him and speak to him. I need to make sure he’s okay.

I grab my laptop out of the Austen and go check the Hemingway as soon as I get back to Comfort Cottages, knowing that I would find it empty.

Falling into bed, I sniff the pillow that carries Jakes scent. I miss him already and I have no idea where he’s gone.

I turn on the computer and that’s when I see it in the banner at Yahoo. ABC breaking story and Jake’s picture. He’s dressed in all black, including his sunglasses. It must be Mike’s funeral because his arm is around a woman who’s crying. She too is dressed in black. I click on the article and my eyes go immediately to the author.

Ben Hall.

Chapter 20

For two consecutive days I stay in the Hemingway waiting for him. All his clothes are here. He’s got to come get them at some point. I’ve called a million times, but the call either goes directly to voicemail or rings twice and goes to voicemail. I’m so worried I haven’t shed a single tear. A wall of ice has formed around me and nothing can get out.

On the Fourth of July, Gina convinces me to come to the park for fireworks. In reality, I refuse vehemently, but she doesn’t take no for an answer. Her little red BMW comes buzzing up the hill and she honks and honks until I’m forced to get dressed and join her.

“What are you doing here,” I ask Gray when I see