lliot, José, and Ethan, who stand
around the breakfast bar, all serious faces, talking quietly.
Discussing something in soft subdued voices. Behind them,
Mrs. Jones busies herself in the kitchen.
Kate is in the TV room, monitoring the local news. I
hear the faint squawk from the big plasma TV. I can’t bear
to see the news item again—CHRISTIAN GREY MISSING—
his beautiful face on TV.
Idly, it occurs to me that I’ve never seen so many
people in this room, yet they are still dwarfed by its sheer
size. Little islands of lost, anxious people in my Fifty’s
home. What would he think about them being here?
Somewhere, Taylor and Carrick are talking to the
authorities who are drip-feeding us information, but it’s all
meaningless. The fact is—he’s missing. He’s been missing
for eight hours. No sign, no word from him. The search
has been called off—this much I do know. It’s just too
dark. And we don’t know where he is. He could be hurt,
hungry, or worse. No!
I offer another silent prayer to God. Please let
Christian be okay. Please let Christian be okay. I
repeat it over and over in my head—my mantra, my
lifeline, something concrete to cling to in my desperation. I
refuse to think the worst. No, don’t go there. There is
hope.
“You’re my lifeline.”
Christian’s words come back to haunt me. Yes, there
is always hope. I must not despair. His words echo
is always hope. I must not despair. His words echo
through my mind.
“I’m now a firm advocate of instant gratification.
Carpe diem, Ana.”
Why didn’t I seize the day?
“I’m doing this because I’ve finally met someone I
want to spend the rest of my life with.”
I close my eyes in silent prayer, rocking gently. Please,
let the rest of his life not be this short. Please, please.
We ha一ven’t had enough time . . . we need more time.
We’ve done so much in the last few weeks, come so far.
It can’t end. All our tender moments: the lipstick, when he
made love to me for the first time at the Olympic hotel, on
his knees in front of me offering himse
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