Just My Luck by Adele Parks (best romance books of all time txt) 📗

You can take a bed in one of the spare rooms. I think they are all made up.”

He shakes his head. “I won’t be able to sleep. I’d rather be here.” I nod, respecting his decision. I keep checking the wall clock and my watch; they agree. Time is passing. The last time any of us saw Emily was at about eight thirty. It’s now three in the morning. I don’t want them to, but my thoughts start to traverse down dark and disturbing paths.

You are a winner.

Four words and the whole world shifts. I can’t find her.

Just four more words. But they are the ones that shove me from fortunate to damned. She was there in front of me. All hopeful and sulky and glorious and angry, and then she was gone. It’s strange that the good news—the winning—took time to sink in. This horror I accept instantly. I’ve been waiting for it. I wish more than anything that she was here by my side being annoyed by my clinginess and what she calls righteousness. Resenting me for being her buzzkill.

I should have known that we’d pay. I did know. I would have paid in any other way. I’ve never felt so alone in my life. I want to be doing something, to bring her home. I want to be out there looking for her. It’s not enough to just sit and wait, wait and see what happens. I go and dig out Logan’s laptop, start to Google the procedure and statistics around kidnapping. It’s a mistake. Like most things on the internet, facts are drowned by hysteria and cruelty, worst-case scenarios. I try not to click and wander down the rabbit warrens of despair and dread, but I can’t help myself. I feel sick, faced with videos of men in hoodies, men on CCTV cameras, men driving vans into the distance. I am immobilized by the fuzzy, faded pictures of smiley young girls never recovered; instead destined to stay forever in school uniforms, not allowed to grow up, grow old, to live. I see pictures of heartbroken parents at press conferences, at tombstones. My eyes slide from one article to the next, but I am too much of a coward to read anything properly. Words morph on and off the screen; like ants at a picnic, they won’t stay still. Often the word “kidnapper” is linked with the words “teen” and “murder.” The Wikipedia definition—the unlawful carrying away and confinement of a person against their will—punches me in the gut. Carrying away where? Confined where?

I read that the police consider the first few hours often to be the most vital in offering up clues in a missing person case. Again, I am swamped with doubt that Jake’s decision not to involve the police is the right one, but I don’t challenge him. I don’t trust myself—or anyone, come to that. If the kidnappers hurt her because they somehow find out I’ve contacted the police, I’d never forgive myself. How would I live with that? Soon they will send a message. They will ask for money. We can give money. That, we can do. I Google the word “ransom.” It’s a silly habit of our time. Something is wrong—a rash, weening problems, sleeping patterns—we Google it. Something is unknown—school catchment areas, inoculation guidelines, dates for the Topshop sale—Google it.

Someone is lost—what then?

I Google it. I am hoping for some advice on how to handle this impossible, unimaginable situation because I’m clueless, alone. Maybe we all are, trapped in a terrible space where there are only digital responses, digital solutions. Pixels on a screen, placed there by strangers. I want to talk to my husband, but I don’t have the words. I want to talk to my friends, but I don’t have any of those. In a way, the search does help. I am stunned that the first thing that comes up is adverts for companies that insure people against ransom. I feel a peculiar, uncomfortable relief that we are not alone and yet a profound, distinct terror that this is a business. Hostage situations, kidnapping and extortion occur often enough for people to insure themselves against it. I have insurance for accidents in the home, for luggage lost on holiday. I should have known things were bigger now. I should have protected her more. “Jake, did you know that there are companies that work to cover monies lost to ransom?” I call through to where he is still sitting in the kitchen.

“Too late for that,” he bites back.

“No, I didn’t mean we needed cover,” I mutter impatiently. “Of course not, but my point is if it’s a business, then...” I quickly add a few more words to the search engine. “Look here!” Jake swiftly walks over to where I’m sitting and bends over me to read the screen. For a moment I feel it again, the old intimacy between us. I feel shored up, hopeful. Perhaps I can lean on him. Perhaps we can make it through this. But then Jennifer and Fred crowd around the screen, too, and the intimacy is loosened, lost. I push on. “There are companies that say their aim at all times is the safe return of a kidnap victim, that they can help with that.”

Yes, there are specialists. I should know that by now. There are specialists for everything: accountants, lawyers, florists, image consultants, party planners. Whilst planning the party I learned there are people who make a living out of being hummus specialists, balloon sculptors and adding edible glitter to jelly. Of course there are people who specialize in safely returning your kidnapped child. It’s just a matter of money. And we have money. “We should get in touch with these people.” I click on the link, but again Jake stops me.

“Just wait. Don’t do anything rash. We have to research these sites. How do we know we can trust these people? They might be scam artists.”

“We don’t know if we can