Chapter 49 - Where are you Samaya?

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“I’ll do everything I can.” And I will.

I hang up the phone, and immediately, I dial Sam’s number.

Voicemail.

Fuck!

Frustrated, I hang up.

“Samaya 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 Samaya’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 Samaya Raichand.”

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. Stella, the girl who checked her out, is new with us. She must not have seen the notice that was on Miss Raichand’s file. I only noticed that she’d gone because I was working through today’s departures. I asked Stella 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 New York.

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 Samaya 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—”

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