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I missed the chance ofsaving him from the kidnappers.Things went worse as the weeks went on. Thomas was not returned. The Presslost interest in the story. The Police were at a standstill. The onlything left was an empty chair where Thomas sat when we ate, and silence.Silence is the worst thing. When Mum would look at me, I would think whatshe was thinking. Sometimes I wished that it were me that was kidnapped.It is not because I wanted to; it was just hard watching Mum miss Thomas.It was hard to see her cry. It made me feel no guilty and convinced thatit was my fault that Thomas was kidnapped.A few weeks after the kidnapping, I got a letter. I rushed up to my roomto read it. I was excited because I never got letters. When I opened it,my heart stopped. I think I got a panic attack. It was a picture ofThomas. His hair was in a ponytail and he was sitting with a teddy bear inhis arms. There was writing on the back, "Don't show police, only you cansave him. It's too dangerous to involve. "Yes Mrs. Thompson," I called her by my last name. "I quite approve." Well thank you Mrs. Anderson," she one-upped me.I should not have been surprised when I found that our seats were inFirst Class. There was a pretty stewardess in charge of our area whoimmediately attended to us to make us feel comfortable. Grace took theaisle seat, allowing me to sit by the window. Once the doors wereclosed, we taxied to the runway and within minutes, the plane was off ofthe ground. As the plane reached its highest altitude, the stewardessagain approached and served us champagne. She was having small talkwith Grace, a language at which women seemed to be fluent. I wasrelieved to be sitting where I was so that I was able to avoid it. Iwas able to overhear their conversation however."So, what are you two going to be doing on St. Barth's? Checking outthe clubs for men? Hmmm?" she asked in a feminine conspiratorial tone.Grace laughed. "Ha! No. No men on this trip. We're on ourhoneymoon,".
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