I am going to attempt to complete this. I have a sort-of formed idea about where it's going. I hope you enjoy.
He drove frantically, desperately. So unused to driving he took no pleasure in the near deaths he caused. He was, to put it lightly, traumatised by events of the evening. Against everything that was good in him, he cursed his daughter to the ground. And let's not, he scolded himself, forget that you chose to comply with Wednesday's little scheme. A cry of rage racking through him, he slammed his palms hard on to the steering wheel and skidded to a halt outside the massive, glaring airport. Even amongst the throng of exhausted business men and fraying families, he would have been able to spot her. She was not there.
"Excuse me," he pushed forward to the information desk and pulled out a bulging money clip, "A flight to..." he paused.
Then all of his energy left him. The woman, bemused by his intensity but impressed by the production of that number of 100 dollar bills, merely stared. He thought, once, that he had known her so well that he could predict her. Yet now he felt that this assumption had been his most paramount mistake. She was as unpredictable as an unknown poison, a mutation of nature. And god he craved her above everything.
"Paris." At least if he didn't find her there, it was a starting point.
The woman shook her head, "The last flight left 2 hours ago," she checked her computer screen, "And the next one is not till 10 a.m in the morning."
He pushed the money towards her, "Ok."
Wednesday was waiting for him, sitting on the bottom step of the interior stairs, wringing her hands together. The house was dead. At least, he thought momentarily, she had made peace with Lucas.
"Did you get her?"
he was surprised by the frantic, flailing hand gestures and red that shadowed her usually lifeless cheeks.
"No," he sat down beside her.
"Here," Wednesday pulled something from her pocket. Immediately he recognised the scroll, loopy and spidery all at once, it was distinctive because, like her, it was perfectly formed. Like everything in her life she took time over the simplest thing, such as her handwriting. She has scored that into him too , literally and metaphorically,with a red hilted knife.
"I went into your room," Wednesday muttered.
Gomez had to work very hard to bite back the comment that she ought to have stayed out of anything that was to do with him and her mother at all but fatherly respect, and ultimately love, stopped him. He unfurled the envelope; dreading and hopeful in equal measure. He really knew little of the woman he had slept beside for over twenty years but he knew enough of Morticia to know that she couldn't just let it slip away in such an awful manner. He read it, then pressed it to his heart. He heard his daughter's breath hitch in response to his action but he did not want to share with her what was written within.
He turned to her, "She's gone to Paris."
"Oh...and?"
"She's asked that I don't go after her," he said, "But I am not listening to that."
They sat in pondering silence, both wondering the same thing, both frightened to voice it.
"I am sorry father," Wednsday was evidently trying not tot cry. His heart crumbled a little.
"It's not your fault paloma," he shook his head, "I should have put you in your place rather than lied for you. I am the adult."
"But you didn't want to."
"Ah," he laughed ruefully, "The point is that I did, regardless of whether or not I wanted to."
"Well for what it's worth," his daughter sighed, "I am sorry. Get back from Paris, with my mother, as soon as you can."
She stood up and in an uncharacteristic show of affection she bent down and hugged him. It was awkward and clumsy but it meant a lot to him nonetheless. Then she climbed the stairs quietly, leaving him there. He slumped against the bannister and felt sadness, acute and severe, coil up his spine to rest in his chest. He felt the weight of the word press between his ribs. She had left him. And he deserved it.