Chapter Six
Then
Even the things I’ve survived in my life pale to the horror I find myself submerged in the daythatphone call arrived and completely shattered my world forever.
I could barely process what the man was saying to me. Like he was speaking English, but maybe I’d stroked out or something and wasn’t understanding him. Because I knew he couldn’t be telling me what I thought he was telling me. That the charter flight carrying not only George and Ellen, but our governor and his wife, and the tourism commissioner—and governors and lieutenant governors and other state officials from all over the Southeast—had been lost on radar and was overdue.
I remember Declan sitting on the other side of my desk and watching me, then standing and rounding it to be by my side. I vaguely remember giving him some instructions, and knowing I had things to do so I could get myself to Atlanta to catch the flight the company hosting the junket was chartering to send us all to LAX, and from there overseas.
Throughout all of that, one grisly mantra pounded through my skull, nearly driving me to my knees.
My girl is gone.
I’m not going to lie and say I didn’t spend my adult life ready and waiting to catch her if George let her down. That I was fully prepared to swoop in and steal her right out from under his nose if he so much as gave me a centimeter’s worth of slack rope to hang him with.
Yes, even after I was with Declan, I’m ashamed to say.
But in all the years I’d known George, if anything, he only proved to me how much he loved her, and their kids. How worthy he was of her.
The irony is that I couldn’t have asked for a better friend than him, or a better man to take care of my girl. And I loved him.
Doesn’t mean I didn’t want her back and wouldn’t hesitate to fuck him over in the process.
Except now…
I somehow manage to wait until Declan’s left my office to run into my private bathroom and puke my guts up. Once I finish that, I remove my makeup, wash my face, and reapply a little powder, lipstick, and waterproof eyeliner. Just enough to not look like a fucking zombie.
When I step out into the office, I’m well aware of the way the low chatter immediately silences and everyone looks at me.
I can’t stand it. “Conference room.Everyone. Put the office phones on lunch voice mail.Now.”
I head down there without waiting, knowing they’ll all follow me.
Five minutes later, after I’ve detailed what I know, everyone is either silently stunned or softly crying. I turn to our office manager. “Lila,” I say to her. “Book me an immediate charter to Hartsfield-Jackson. Charge it to the corporate card and apply it against my hours, if necessary.”
I text her phone from mine, copying a message from the company hosting the junket, which has the gate and flight info of the awaiting charter there. “That’s the plane I’m catching. I want to be in the air as soon as Declan returns with my luggage and I can get to the airport. Call around and find out if anyone from the Willis or Stinson families want to fly with me, but warn them they’d better be on the charter when I’m ready to leave Nashville, or they’re not going.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She scurries out of the conference room to handle it.
I look around at the others, including senior partners, who are standing there and staring at me. Because of George, I’m more powerful in the state than any of them, and they know it and accord me the proper deference. “No statements go out of this office unless they go through Declan first. I’ll coordinate information with him. I hearanyof you giving statements to the press right now beyond a ‘thoughts and prayers,’ and I willfuckinghave your goddamned head. You understand me?”
They all nod.
“We don’t know what’s going on. We don’t know if they’re alive or dead. Donottoss chum into the water for those fucking journalists to feed on. It’s not only about us—it’s about the families ofallthe passengers on that plane. We’re attorneys. Let’s fucking act like it.”
I swivel on my heel and return to my office, where I close the door and take a few deep breaths.
My first call is to Tyson, because he lives in Atlanta. I’m not sure if he’ll answer his personal cell, at first, but he does, sounding cautious.
“Hello?”
“Tyson, hi. This is Casey-Marie. George and Ellen’s friend.’
His tone brightens. “Oh, hey! What’s up?”
“Are you alone?”
“Um, I’m in my office. Why?”
