Oceans Apart by Karen Kingsbury Page B

had contacted him, they consistently called out of Atlanta, the airline’s home base.
    Chills flashed down Connor’s arms and the length of his spine.
    If the attorney in Honolulu wasn’t with the airline, then who was he? And why, just days after the air disaster, was he calling him at home?
    The thought kept him distracted throughout the night, and regardless of the ideas he’d had when he first came home that afternoon, Connor let Michele head off to bed alone. When the house was quiet he crept into the office and signed onto the Internet.
    There, for the next three hours, he searched the Web for every detail he could find about the crash. Who was Kiahna Siefert, anyway, and what connection could he, Connor Evans, possibly have had to the tragedy?
    By three o’clock that morning, Connor was convinced that the answer was simple. There was no connection. He hadn’t spoken to Kiahna since that long-ago summer night, and he knew nothing about either the airline or the flight in question. The fear he felt was nothing more than an overactive imagination and a forgotten bit of guilt, resurrected by the crash.
    First thing Monday at work, he would call the attorney back.
    Until then he would put the entire matter out of his mind. Obviously his fears were unfounded. Once he was convinced of these things, once he was certain no connection existed between the phone call and his time with Kiahna, Connor climbed into bed next to Michele.
    The strange message all but forgotten, he was asleep instantly.
    88

    NINE
    Connor had fifteen minutes before he had to report to the gate.
    He moved at a snappy pace, his single piece of luggage rolling along behind him, smooth and efficient. The pilot’s lounge was a few gates from the one he’d be flying out of, but he didn’t want to make the call from there. He strode across the concourse to an empty gate across from his.
    The area was quiet, and he took a seat next to the sheet of glass windows. He flipped out his cell phone and reached into his pocket for the long-distance number. He studied the scrap of paper and felt his stomach tighten.
    Marv Ogle.
    The attorney’s name meant nothing to him, and neither did the phone number. But here, in the light of day, the reasons he’d dreamed up to explain the message no longer seemed airtight. For half a second, he thought about praying, but he changed his mind.
    Prayer was for difficult situations, right? Trials or emergencies or major life decisions. No need to bother God with something like this. He clenched his jaw and tapped out the number sequence.
    Even with the typically poor airport reception, the call went through without hesitation.
    “Ogle and Browning,” a voice on the other end said.
    “Marv Ogle, please.”
    “Who’s calling?”
    Connor felt his heart skip a beat. “Connor Evans. Returning his call.”
    “Just a moment.”
    89

    – Oceans Apart –
    A tinny version of something slow and instrumental played in the background, and Connor glanced at his watch. Thirteen minutes before he had to report. He was about to hang up and try again after he landed in Atlanta, when he heard a click.
    “Hello . . . Marv Ogle, can I help you?”
    “Yes.” His throat was suddenly tight. “Mr. Ogle, I’m Connor Evans. You left me a message a few days ago.” The pause that followed lasted a lifetime and an instant all at once. When the man on the other end finally spoke, Connor’s shoulders relaxed. At least after this he wouldn’t have to wonder.
    “Mr. Evans, I’m afraid I have some very sad news for you.” Connor held his breath.
    The attorney continued, his voice a notch more somber than before. “As you’re probably aware, Western Island Air Flight 45
    crashed last week and left no survivors.” He hesitated. “I represent the estate of Kiahna Siefert, a friend of yours, I believe. I’m afraid she was on the flight.”
    A pounding started in Connor’s head. How could Kiahna’s death involve him in any way? Had she