Levon snatched the phone off the blanket, punched in Kim's number, counted out the interminable rings, two, then three, looking at the clock, doing the math. It was just after ten at night in Hawaii.

Then Kim's voice was in his ear.

“Kim!” he shouted.

Barb clapped her hands over her face in relief – but Levon realized his mistake.

“It's only a message,” he said to Barb, hearing Kim's recorded voice. “Leave your name and number and I'll call you back. Byeeee.”

“Kim, it's Dad. Are you okay? We'd like to hear from you. Don't worry about the time. Just call. Everybody here is fine. Love you, honey. Dad.”

Barb was crying. “Oh, my God, Oh, my God,” she repeated as she balled up the comforter, pressing it to her face.

“We don't know anything, Barb,” he said. “He could be some moron with a sick sense of humor -”

“Oh, God, Levon. Try her hotel room.”

Sitting at the edge of the bed, staring down at the nubby carpet between his feet, Levon called information. He jotted down the number, disconnected the line, then dialed the Wailea Princess in Maui.

When the operator came on, he asked for Kim McDaniels, got five distant rings in a room four thousand miles away, and then a machine answered. “Please leave a message for the occupant of Room Three-fourteen. Or press zero for the operator.”

Levon's chest pains were back and he was short of breath. He said into the mouthpiece, “Kim, call Mom and Dad. It's important.” He stabbed the 0 button until the lilting voice of the hotel operator came back on the line.

He asked the operator to ring Carol Sweeney's room, the booker from the modeling agency, who'd accompanied Kim to Hawaii and was supposed to be there as her chaperone.

There was no answer in Carol's room, either. Levon left a message: “Carol, this is Levon McDaniels, Kim's dad. Please call when you get this. Don't worry about the time. We're up. Here's my cell phone number?”