Swimsuit Read Online Free Page B

over the carpet. He picked the
     inhaler out of the jumble, handed it to Barb, watched her take in a long pull.
    Tears ran down her face.
    He reached out his arms for her, and she went to him, cried into his chest, “Please… just call her.”
    Levon snatched the phone off the blanket, punched in Kim’s number, counted out the interminable rings, two, then three, looking
     at the clock, doing the math. It was just after ten at night in Hawaii.
    Then Kim’s voice was in his ear.
    “Kim!” he shouted.
    Barb clapped her hands over her face in relief — but Levon realized his mistake.
    “It’s only a message,” he said to Barb, hearing Kim’s recorded voice. “Leave your name and number and I’ll call you back.
     Byeeee.”
    “Kim, it’s
Dad.
Are you okay? We’d like to hear from you. Don’t worry about the time. Just call. Everybody here is fine. Love you, honey.
     Dad.”
    Barb was crying. “Oh, my God, Oh, my God,” she repeated as she balled up the comforter, pressing it to her face.
    “We don’t know anything, Barb,” he said. “He could be some moron with a sick sense of humor —”
    “Oh, God, Levon. Try her hotel room.”
    Sitting at the edge of the bed, staring down at the nubby carpet between his feet, Levon called information. He jotted down
     the number, disconnected the line, then dialed the Wailea Princess in Maui.
    When the operator came on, he asked for Kim McDaniels, got five distant rings in a room four thousand miles away, and then
     a machine answered. “Please leave a message for the occupant of Room Three-fourteen. Or press zero for the operator.”
    Levon’s chest pains were back and he was short of breath. He said into the mouthpiece, “Kim, call Mom and Dad. It’s important.”
     He stabbed the 0 button until the lilting voice of the hotel operator came back on the line.
    He asked the operator to ring Carol Sweeney’s room, the booker from the modeling agency, who’d accompanied Kim to Hawaii and
     was supposed to be there as her chaperone.
    There was no answer in Carol’s room, either. Levon left a message: “Carol, this is Levon McDaniels, Kim’s dad. Please call
     when you get this. Don’t worry about the time. We’re up. Here’s my cell phone number…”
    Then he got the operator again.
    “We need help,” he said. “Please connect me to the manager. This is an emergency.”

Chapter 11
    LEVON MCDANIELS WAS SQUARE-JAWED, just over six feet, a muscular 165 pounds. He had always been known as a straight shooter,
     decisive, thoughtful, a good leader, but sitting in his red boxers, holding a dinky cordless phone that didn’t connect to
     Kim — he felt nauseated and powerless.
    As he waited for hotel security to go to Kim’s room and report back to the manager, Levon’s imagination fired off images of
     his daughter, hurt, or the captive of some freaking maniac who was planning God only knew what.
    Time passed, probably only a few minutes, but Levon imagined himself rocketing across the Pacific Ocean, bounding up the stairs
     of the hotel, and kicking open Kim’s door. Seeing her peacefully asleep, her phone switched off.
    “Mr. McDaniels, Security is on the other line. The bed is still made up. Your daughter’s belongings look undisturbed. Would
     you like us to notify the police?”
    “Yes. Right away. Thank you. Could you say and spell your name for me?”
    Levon booked a room, then phoned United Airlines, kept pressing zeros until he got a human voice.
    Beside him, Barb’s breathing was wet, her cheeks shining with tears. Her graying braid was coming undone as she repeatedly
     pushed her fingers through it. Barb’s suffering was right out in the open, and she didn’t know any other way. You always knew
     how she felt and where you stood with Barb.
    “The more I think about it,” she said, her voice coming between jerky sobs, “the more I think it’s a lie. If he took her…
     he’d want money, and he didn’t ask for that, Levon. So…
why would