Is she here or on another continent? Given how she’s thrown herself back into modeling, there’s no telling where on earth she could be. Literally.

How can I get her back if I don’t know where to look? An inkling of a memory tickles my brain. Before, when we were together, she sent me an email with her schedule.

Feels like ages ago.

I pull out my phone, searching through my emails. My thumb stops, and I open up one with the subject line of “Travel.” Please, please, please, let the schedule go out this far.

I scroll through all of the September dates. Yes! My eyes zero in on today—Tuesday, October 5^th. She’s flying to LA from Paris, and her plane arrives at 5:30 pm. That’s an hour from now.

I run out the back exit without saying anything to anyone. I need to hurry if I’m going to meet her plane, especially in rush hour traffic. Jumping into my Jeep, I screech out of the parking lot.

On the freeway, my forward momentum ceases. I bang on the steering wheel, weaving in and out of cars. After a couple of minutes, I can’t even weave. Traffic has come to a dead stop. Smog seems to be thick up ahead, echoing my darkening thoughts.

“Fuck!” I bang my head against the headrest. Why is LA living up to its reputation as having the worst traffic?

With one eye on the clock, I look for an opening to change lanes, but one never comes. In sheer frustration, I flip on the radio and soon am tapping my fingers to the beat of an Aerosmith song. I move maybe a half a foot. Queen comes up next, but I can’t relax enough to enjoy my favorite song.

I need to get to Ems.

When the song ends and I’ve moved another ten feet, I want to leap out of my skin and teleport to LAX. I’ll never make it to the airport in time. Never.

“We interrupt our broadcast with some breaking news.” I reach for the dial to shut off the radio—I don’t need to hear whatever’s going on. I have bigger fish to fry, namely getting my girl back.

“A plane crash landed at LAX.”

My fingers fly away from the radio, which now has my full attention.

“A flight from Paris to LAX crashed…”

The announcer continues but I can’t process her words. A flight from Paris? My heartrate speeds up so fast that I could join Dad in the hospital with my own heart attack.

It can’t be her plane. It can’t.

My eyes bounce from my windshield to my rearview mirror, then side view mirror. When they return to the front, a plume of black smoke rises up in the distance. From the direction of LAX.

No. This is not happening.

My body tenses with the need to do something. Shutting off the radio, I put my blinker on and head to the shoulder, driving past the parked cars on the freeway and take the exit, not caring that what I’m doing is illegal. I pull into a grocery store parking lot and throw the Jeep into park.

With shaky fingers, I grab my phone and dial Ems. It goes straight to voicemail. Like when a phone is off.

I take a deep breath. Her phone can be off for any number of reasons. Maybe she forgot to charge it.

Maybe she had to turn it off during her flight.

I search for the airline’s number and hit “send.” I get a fast busy signal. Twenty times in a row.

Shit.

I run my hand through my hair, yanking at the short ends. Who else can I call? Think. I open my contacts and call Price Modeling Agency. A receptionist answers.

“Can you please tell me if Emilie Dubois was on the flight from Paris that just crashed? This is her bodyguard.” My voice cracks on the last word.

A whole lot of noise crackles over the phone line, as if several people are in reception answering the phones. “I’m sorry, but we do not have any information at this time.” My hand goes numb as the phone slips from my fingers. I stare at nothing, my mind completely blank.

Except for one thought that plays on a loop—Everyone you love dies. And I do love her.

The sudden need to move, to do something, overwhelms me. I need to get out of here. Go. Anywhere.

No, not anywhere. I need to be near Ems. Traffic on the freeway remains at a standstill so there’s no use in trying to get to the airport. I rub my hands on the steering wheel. Think.

A lightbulb goes off in my brain. I throw the Jeep in drive and speed off toward her house. As I pull into the driveway and hit the button to open the gate—thankfully, I programmed it into my Jeep—I remember the first time she practiced parking here. How proud she was of her small accomplishment. A smile tries to break free, which I squash. This can’t be happening. Again.

Once parked in the carport, I head out of my Jeep and walk up the stone pathway. Even though it seems pointless, when I reach her front door, I knock. She doesn’t answer. As I insert my key into the lock, the first of the paparazzi arrive. Vultures circling. Ignoring the truck, I let myself into her house and slam the door shut.

“Ems! Are you here?”

The cold, utter stillness of an empty house greets me.

This can’t be happening.

Screeching tires out front announce another vulture is taking up residence. I give them the finger before shutting the curtains to all of the windows facing the street.

I need to know what’s going on. Dreading what I may find, I turn on her television. An aerial view of LAX shows an airplane off the side of the runway, fire engines coating it with foam. The breaking news alert shouts, “PLANE FROM PARIS CRASHES AT LAX. MULTIPLE FATALITIES POSSIBLE. SUPERMODEL EMILIE DUBOIS CONFIRMED ON PASSENGER LIST.”

My entire being revolts, and I cover my mouth with my hand as a dry heave shudders through my body. No, no, no. Not again. Not my Ems.

Haven’t I lost enough?

Turning my back on the unbelievable scene unfolding on the TV, I leave the living room and head toward the kitchen. Cole and Rose’s wedding invitation sits on the counter. Shaking my head, I change course and find myself outside her bedroom. I take a couple of steps into the room, my eyes landing on her bed. Some discarded pieces of clothing are on it. I pick up her t-shirt and crumple it to my face, inhaling her lavender scent.

Suddenly, the walls close in on me. I race out of her bedroom, through the French doors and out onto the patio, collapsing down onto the chaise, her t-shirt still in my hands.

An unknown sensation pricks the back of my eyes. My vision becomes so cloudy that the pool swims in front of me. Wetness splashes onto my cheek.

“Emilie.”

“Ems.”

“Angel.”

“God, I need you. You can’t be gone. I haven’t told you that I love you yet.”

I swipe the first tears I’ve ever shed off my cheeks, only to have them replaced with more. I close my eyes and let grief wrack my body.