“Thomas Wells,” she finished. “Yeah, he’s my, uh, dad. He hasn’t been answering his phone and we’re worried.” Becca was nodding along to whatever the receptionist said. I leaned in closer, trying to hear. “It’s Thomas. Yeah, W-E-L-L-S. Sure. I’m on hold,” she whispered. A second later, she said, “Oh. Okay. Thanks anyway. Bye.” She hung up. “Well?” I didn’t like the look on her face. “She said there was no reservation under that name.” It felt like the floor had turned to quicksand and I was being sucked under.
:(
