Levon Mcdaniels was square-jawed, just over six feet, a muscular 165 pounds. He had always been known as a straight shooter, decisive, thoughtful, a good leader, but sitting in his red boxers, holding a dinky cordless phone that didn't connect to Kim – he felt nauseated and powerless.

As he waited for hotel security to go to Kim's room and report back to the manager, Levon's imagination fired off images of his daughter, hurt, or the captive of some freaking maniac who was planning God only knew what.

Time passed, probably only a few minutes, but Levon imagined himself rocketing across the Pacific Ocean, bounding up the stairs of the hotel, and kicking open Kim's door. Seeing her peacefully asleep, her phone switched off.

“Mr. McDaniels, Security is on the other line. The bed is still made up. Your daughter's belongings look undisturbed. Would you like us to notify the police?”

“Yes. Right away. Thank you. Could you say and spell your name for me?”

Levon booked a room, then phoned United Airlines, kept pressing zeros until he got a human voice.

Beside him, Barb's breathing was wet, her cheeks shining with tears. Her graying braid was coming undone as she repeatedly pushed her fingers through it. Barb's suffering was right out in the open, and she didn't know any other way. You always knew how she felt and where you stood with Barb.

“The more I think about it,” she said, her voice coming between jerky sobs, “the more I think it's a lie. If he took her? he'd want money, and he didn't ask for that, Levon. So? why would he call us?”

“I just don't know, Barb. It doesn't make sense to me either.”

“What time is it there?”

“Ten thirty p.m.”