Under the bed.Nothing.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
My eyes drift to the bedroom door. No way. Nofuckingway Elijah would just…
But he’s 4. And curious. And has zero sense of stranger danger because I’ve sheltered him too much and—
I press my palm against my chest, trying to cage the panic.
Okay. Think.
The door’s probably locked, anyway. These are professional criminals. They wouldn’t be stupid enough to—
My bare feet whisper across the polished hardwood. One step. Two. Like approaching a bomb that might go off.
My fingers hover over the handle. Just check. It’ll be locked, and I’ll feel like an idiot, and Elijah’s probably just hiding in the closet again because he thinks he’s a ninja and—
The handle turns.
Just… turns.
Like this isn’t a kidnapping. Like we’re guests at some fucked up B&B run by the Russian mob.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I breathe, staring at the open doorway like it’s personally offended me.
These absolutemoronsdidn’t even lock us in.
I step into the hallway, the smooth wood giving way to plush carpet.
“Elijah?” My whisper echoes off the high ceiling. Three other doors mock me from across the hall, all firmly shut.
I try each handle. Locked. Of-fucking-course.
“Baby?” My voice gets a little louder, a little more desperate. “This isn’t funny, buddy.”
The elevator at the end of the hall hums softly. Down is the only option unless my 4-year-old suddenly learned to pick locks or sprout wings.
My finger hovers over the button. I’m half-naked, trapped in a mobster’s house, and my son is missing. This is fine. Everything is fine.
The elevator arrives with a softdingthat makes me jump. Empty. Thank God.
I step in, wrapping my arms around myself. The oversized white T-shirt I snagged from the closet keeps sliding off one shoulder. My reflection in the mirrored walls shows exactly what I am—a hot mess in borrowed clothes, barefoot and pissed off.
Mother of the Year.
The numbers tick down: 3… 2… 1…
A child’s giggle floats up from somewhere below.
Hisgiggle.
I’m out of the elevator before the doors fully open, bare feet silent on the marble floor.
More laughter. Adult voices. The clinking of plates.
I break into a run, T-shirt barely covering my ass, no bra, no dignity, no—
I skid to a stop in the doorway.
