Page 98 of Stolen Dreams

The backs of my eyes sting as the boy stares at me, frightened. “Sorry,” I say. “Thought you were someone else.”

Freaked out, the boy runs off.

My limbs shake as my stomach bottoms out. “Where are you, Tucker?” The question is barely a whisper as I search the sea of faces.

“What can I do?” Kaya asks.

I spin on her, my worst nightmare resurrected. “Anything!” I shout. “This is your fault.” Deep down, I know Tucker missing is not on Kaya. But if we would’ve stayed home like I wanted to, Tucker would be safe. “This was a bad idea. We shouldn’t have come here.”

Tears spilling down her cheeks, she opens her mouth to say something. Before a single word gets said, I bolt for the front desk and alert the attendant. Then I pull out my phone and make the worst call of my life. Again.

Please let him be okay. I can’t lose him. Not like this. Not again.

TWENTY-EIGHT

KAYA

The tears won’t stop.Neither will the throbbing ache in the center of my chest. But I deserve to feel every second of it.

I did this.

Ray wanted to stay home, and I encouraged him to leave. Said going out would lift both his and Tucker’s spirits. And it did. For a few hours, they were the happiest I’d seen them in weeks.

Then Tucker vanished, and the world went dark.

Panic I’ve never known shadows every line, muscle, and angle of Ray’s face as he paces the sidewalk near the bowling alley entrance. A sense of dread only a parent feels when something traumatic or devastating happens to their child.

Of course, I’m unsteady. Dizzy and bewildered. Hysterical and apprehensive. But what I feel is inconsequential. Utterly insignificant compared to what Ray is going through. So I slip on my mask. Shove my emotions into the recesses of my mind and promise to keep them there until I’m alone.

Roger Emerson—the Stone Bay police chief—and Travis Emerson—Roger’s son and the officer Ray spoke with a couple weeks ago—ask Ray a barrage of questions.

“Do you have a recent photo of Tucker?”

“Can you give us a detailed description of Tucker—hair color and style, eye color, height, weight, definable marks?”

“What was Tucker wearing today?”

That question brings on a new wave of tears.

After Ray called 911, he took off his bowling shoes, slipped on his one the attendant didn’t keep, and went to the front desk to return them for his other shoe. When they set his other shoe on the counter, he froze. Gaze fixed on the sneaker, his hands shook at his sides, not in anger but bone-deep terror. Beside Ray, I held Tucker’s lone black skateboard-style sneaker.

The moment Ray stormed off for the door, I begged the attendant for Tucker’s other shoe, no matter the cost. Several cubby searches later, I walked out the door with the shoes tucked in the crook of my arm. As soon as Ray spotted them, his lip curled. In three long strides, he ripped them away from me and hugged them to his chest.

Since then, I haven’t moved from my spot on the bench. And Ray refuses to acknowledge my existence.

Can’t say I blame him.

Ray Jr., Angel, and Abigail rush toward the entrance from the parking lot, panic-stricken expressions on their faces. Angel hugs her son with unparalleled ferocity while he fists her shirt and cries into the curve of her neck. Ray Jr. barks orders at Chief Emerson, demanding the police do something other than stand here with their thumbs up their asses. Abigail lingers nearby, uncertain who to console or how to help.

Right there with you, girl.

Chief Emerson’s jaw muscles tic as Ray Jr. steps into his personal space. He clutches the radio attached to his uniform at his shoulder and presses the call button.

“Attention all units, code 10-65. Male. Caucasian. Nine years old. Four feet tall. Dark, curly hair. Hazel eyes. Last seen at Strikers Bowling Alley at 15:47 in a blue shirt, denim shorts, andbowling shoes. Name: Tucker Dean Calhoun. Possible suspect: Brianna Werner. Thirty years old. Caucasian. Female. Thin build. Approximately five foot five. Possibly armed, proceed with caution.”

Bile claws its way up my throat as officers acknowledge the call. Ray collapses on the ground, his sobs deafening and heartbreaking. Every cell in my body screams to go to him, to hold him, shush his cries, and whisper in his ear that I’m here, that we will find Tucker.

But my comfort is the last thing Ray wants. Although it hurts to envisage, I wouldn’t fault Ray if he never wants to see me again.

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