Page 2 of Broken Bonds

“Do you know where he is?”

Anxiety claws at my gut. What is this about?

“In Dallas.”

She looks at me, raising her eyebrows. “Are you sure?”

I’m usually calm, but something in her tone raises the hairs on the back of my neck.

“Are you sure he’s in Dallas?”

“Stop beating around the bush, Mom, tell me what’s wrong.” A bead of sweat drips down my forehead.

“The television, you have to turn on the television.”

I take her by the wrist and park her in front of the giant screen that Lionel bought a few weeks ago.

“The news channel,” she says in a rush.

The headline appears on the screen. I gasp, the floor beneath my feet shaking. I can’t breathe, can’t think.

No!

‘Lionel Kral has been attacked and is clinging to life.’

I refuse to believe it. My mind races, trying to process the information. But it’s impossible. I saw him just yesterday, my loving husband. My world is spinning out of control, and I feel lightheaded, ready to collapse at any moment. How can this be? They must have made a mistake. It can’t be true, they’re not talking about my Lionel, my husband. The very thought sends shivers down my spine, and I struggle to catch my breath as panic sets in.

“This can’t be true,” I whisper as I drop onto the couch, my legs giving way beneath me. “It can’t be. What was Lionel doing in Los Angeles?”

Mom sits next to me, holding my hand. “Try to call him, maybe it’s someone with the same name, a namesake. Didn’t you say your Lionel is in Texas this week?”

My heart races as I sprint to the kitchen, my breath coming in ragged gasps. My hands tremble violently as I fumble for my phone, fingers slipping on the slick screen. My stomach drops when I see seven missed calls from my mother and two from my friend Valerie.

Back in the living room, I struggle to hold onto the device, dropping it twice before finally managing to dial Lionel’s number. All the while, I can’t tear my eyes away from the news, desperate for any shred of information. It feels like time is standing still as I wait for him to answer, my body tense with anxiety and worry.

Answer, Lionel, answer and tell me this is all a lie.

The reporter’s talking. Renowned architect… Large West Coast construction company… Death’s door.

My heart hammers against my rib cage, thudding loudly in my ears.

Lionel doesn’t answer. Is he in a meeting?

It can’t be him, it can’t be.

My husband is in Dallas. My husband is an employee.

My husband isn’t the millionaire they’re talking about on the news.

It’s not him, it’s not Lionel.

“He’s not answering,” I mumble.

The only response I hear is the hateful sound of the call going to voicemail.

“We’ve been informed that the thirty-four-year-old businessman is in the intensive care unit of Cedars-Sinai Hospital. We also know his mother is there with him, however, the family has not made any statements and the doctors are being silent. This is all the information we have at the moment,” says the man ending his report, standing in front of a building with several broken windows and the walls stained with spray paint.

His mother? His family?

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