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I try calling. Nothing. I keep trying, until her phone gets to the point that it doesn’t even ring anymore. Just goes straight to voicemail and her lilting, almost snooty accented voice says:
Hello, you’ve reached the phone of Susanna Sumner. I can’t take your call right now, but do please leave me your name and number and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Thank you.
The phone beeps, and I leave a message.
“Sus, I’m worried. You called me a couple of times, but I never heard you say anything. I text you and you don’t respond. I call you, and you don’t respond. You need to call me as soon as you get this message and let me know you’re okay. Okay?”
I want to say more. Tell her I care about her and I’m worried. But I don’t say anything like that, because I’m feeling like a chicken.
Instead, I end the call and set my phone on the couch, pissed at my bum knee, at the fact that I don’t know where Susanna is and I have no other way to get a hold of her, unless it’s through her phone. I don’t know her parents’ number or her brother’s number, or even her best friend’s number.
And that sucks.
The day drags, and still no response from Susanna. The sun goes down, it’s almost six, and when my phone finally rings and I see Susanna’s number on the screen, the relief that fills me almost makes my head spin.
“Thank Christ you’re finally calling,” I answer. “Are you all right?”
“Um, hello?” The timid voice that fills my ear definitely isn’t Susanna’s.
“Who is this?”
“Are you the sexy footballer?”
What the hell? “Who are you?” I ask.
“Um, my name is Claire Williams, and I’m a nurse. Susanna asked me to call the sexy footballer and let him know that she’s going to be fine.” She hesitates. “You are the sexy footballer, right?”
“Wait a minute.” I sit up straighter, wincing at the pain shooting through my knee. “You’re a nurse? And you’re with Susanna?”
“Yes, she’s in hospital, but don’t worry, the accident wasn’t that bad.”
Fear makes my blood run ice cold. “Accident?”
“Oh dear, I’m sure you don’t know, and I’m sorry to have to tell you like this. I’m afraid Susanna has been in a car accident, but she and her friend are okay.”
“Her friend?” Who was she traveling with? That girl, Evie?
“Yes, I believe she was in the Mercedes with a man.”
A man? “She wrecked the family Mercedes?”
“I wouldn’t call it the family Mercedes. More like a sporty car. Two door. I heard it got mangled,” the nurse says.
This conversation is confusing—and disconcerting. I can’t believe the woman is calling to reassure me, yet she doesn’t know shit. “So you’re telling me Susanna was in an accident involving a two-door sporty Mercedes and she was with another man.” Jealousy could be coming at me fast and hard right about now, but I can’t even think about that. Not without knowing exactly how Susanna is.
“Er, some of my facts might be wrong. I’ll have her ring you as soon as she’s lucid. I only made this call because she kept babbling about her sexy footballer and how your number was under that exact term in her contacts and so…I had to help her and see for myself. You’ll hear from her soon!”
There’s a click, and then she’s gone.
“Fuck,” I mutter, dropping the phone beside me on the couch and scrubbing my face with my hands, my mind spinning. The nurse didn’t tell me shit, beyond a bunch of garbled facts that might not even be facts.
Where is Susanna? Is she okay? What exactly happened to her? Is she badly injured? I can’t sit here not knowing, but having her clear across the world kind of stifles my plan of action. Worse, I’m not even home. I’m stuck in a hotel in Arizona.
Grabbing my phone, I go to my favorites list and hit Tuttle’s number.
“Hey, man,” I tell him when he answers. “I need your help.”
An hour later and Tuttle and our friend and teammate Tucker McCloud are at my hotel room, bringing a box of pizza with them and all the information about Susanna I need from Tuttle. How he finds this stuff out, I don’t know, but I don’t ask too many questions.
