The Ending I Want(106)

She’s been gone a few hours.

My heart starts to beat faster.

“I was hoping that she had come to you?” Dr. March says.

No, she wouldn’t come to me because I’m not who she wants.

I close my eyes, my insides crushing. “No, she hasn’t come to me.”

“Do you know where she could have gone?”

I shake my head. “I’m not sure. Maybe her hotel.”

Then, it hits me. She’s going home.

The last thing Taylor said to me was that she wanted to be with her family.

She was always going to go home. That was her plan all along.

She’s going home to die.

Fuck…no.

“Of course, with her condition, I’m worried for her,” Dr. March goes on. “But my hands are tied. There isn’t a lot I can do, as she isn’t deemed a danger to herself—”

“I know where to find her,” I cut her off.

She exhales. “Good. When you do find Taylor, please try to get her to see reason and come back to the hospital.”

“I’ll do everything I can.” And I will.

I hang up the phone, and immediately, I dial Taylor’s number.

Voicemail.

Fuck!

Frustrated, I hang up.

“Taylor left the hospital?”

I’m guessing Grandpa caught wind of the conversation I just had. After all of his attempts to convince me that this isn’t truly what she wants, even he now looks worried.

And it makes me feel sick.

“She walked out a short time ago.”

I’m moving to the door and out of the room. He’s following me.

“You know where she is?”

“I know where she’s heading.” I yank open the front door and step through it. I turn back to him. “She’s going home. And I’m going to stop her before she does.”





I’ve pulled out of my grandpa’s driveway, and I’m speeding down the road when my phone rings again.

The number shows up on my dash; it’s one of my hotels in London. The one Taylor’s staying at. They were under instructions to call me if she checked out of the hotel.

I connect the call through the Bluetooth.

“Speak now, and make it quick.”

There’s a slight pause, and then a male voice says, “Um, sir, it’s Patrick Squires calling. I’m the day manager at—”

“I know where you’re calling from. What I want is for you to tell me if you’re calling about Taylor Shaw.”

I take a hard turn and then slam my foot back down on the gas.

“Yes, sir, I am. I saw there was an instruction to call you if she checked out—”

“She’s checked out?”

A brief pause, and then he says, “Yes, sir.”

“When?”

“About an hour ago.”

“An hour ago! And you’re only calling me now!” My hands white-knuckle the steering wheel.

“I’m sorry, sir. Perrie, the girl who checked her out, is new with us. She must not have seen the notice that was on Miss Shaw’s file. I only noticed that she’d gone because I was working through today’s departures. I asked Perrie if she had called you—”

“She’s fired.”

“Yes, sir,” he says quietly.

I blow out a breath.

An hour ago. She left a f*cking hour ago. It takes about that time to get from the hotel to Heathrow, depending on traffic. She could already be at the airport. And I don’t know our f*cking flight itineraries to Boston.

Fuck!

I take the exit onto the M40, heading for London. Getting on the motorway, I press my foot down hard, pushing the car as fast as she’ll go.

“Sir?” Patrick’s voice comes in the car.

I forgot for a moment that I was still on the phone.

“Did Taylor get a cab when she left the hotel?” I ask him, my voice hard.

“Yes, sir. I asked Martin, our porter, before I called you. He said he put her in a cab, but he doesn’t know where she was heading. Sir, I am sor—”

I cut the call off. I swear to God, if I hear one more person say they’re sorry today, I’ll f*cking kill them with my bare hands.

Except Taylor.

Taylor can say whatever the hell she wants to me. She can say sorry as many times as she wants, so long as there is something at the end of it…a chance. A chance that she will change her mind.

I search through my contacts, looking for the number for our ticket desk in terminal five at Heathrow Airport. Driving and looking through my phone while I hit close to a hundred miles an hour in the outside lane probably isn’t the best idea.

I find the number and hit Call, focusing completely on the road and getting to Taylor.

The phone rings, echoing around my car, and then the call connects. “Hunter Airways Ticket Desk, Amber speaking. How may I help you?”

“Amber, it’s Liam Hunter calling.”

Silence.

Then, she says, “Liam…Hunter, as in—”

“The guy who pays your salary.”

“Oh. Wow. Hello, sir. How can I help you today?”

“I need you to tell me when the next flight to Boston is?” I check the time on the dash—twenty-eight minutes past one.