Stormy isn't here.
I check the guest room. Empty. The roof. Empty. I come back down, my heart climbing into my throat with every empty room.
The stairwell door bangs open and Sheila comes through it fast, apron twisted in her hands, her face doing something I've never seen it do in fifteen years. Sheila doesn't panic. Sheila once served drinks during a ten-biker bar fight without spilling a drop. But right now, Sheila's panicking.
"I can't find him," she says. "Tex, he's gone. I went to the kitchen to get him and he wasn't there. I checked upstairs, the storage room, the bathroom. He's nowhere in the building."
"Shit! Where could he be? I thought you were getting him upstairs."
"I tried. I got held up by a customer at the bar who wouldn't let go of my arm and by the time I got to the kitchen—" Her voice catches. "The back door was open and there's a plate of food on the floor."
My brain splits into two channels and both of them are nightmares. Channel one: Ron didn't leave. Ron circled around to the beach side while I was watching the street. Ron walked in through the back door and took him. Channel two: Stormy saw Ron from the kitchen, and the survival instinct that's kept him alive since he was ten years old kicked in, and he ran. Found a bike in the lot with keys in the ignition — bikers do that, bikers are trusting idiots — and right now he's heading west with no phone, no money, and no plan, just speed and terror. Doing the only thing he knows to do when that dark shadow shows up.
Both channels end the same way.
I lose Stormy.
"Go out front," I say. "Check the parking lot. Every row. Check Mickey's sight line — if Stormy came out the front, Mickey might have seen him. Check the bikes. See if any of the Thunder Roads guys are missing a ride."
She's already moving before I finish.
I go back to the kitchen. I look at the plate of food on the floor, at the splatter pattern of beans across the tile. I can see what might've happened in my head. Stormy coming through the kitchen door with a plate in his hands, heading for the parking lot. Looking up. Seeing a man in a blue button-down shirt standing at the grill. Wide shoulders. Thick arms. That smile.
He saw Ron.
And then what? Where did he go?
I push through the back door onto the beach side of the building. The sand stretches out empty. I scan the waterline, my pulse pounding, because the last time I couldn't findStormy he was in the water drowning. That thought grabs me by the throat and won't let go.
He's not on the beach. He's not in the water. I don't see him anywhere.
"Stormy!" I yell toward the water.
Not a sound comes back.
I go back inside. I'm moving through the bar fast, checking behind the prep table, under the counters, anywhere a small person could fit. I'm thinking about what Mickey said about people become desperate. Desperate is dangerous. But I'm not thinking about Ron. I'm thinking about Stormy. He's desperate. He's the boy who ran three times and was found every time and learned that running is the only option even when running doesn't work.
I pass the walk-in freezer. I almost keep going. Then I stop.
The gap between the walk-in and the wall. A space that exists because the freezer was installed crooked after the hurricane and nobody's gotten around to fixing it. A space that's too narrow for me to go behind. A space you wouldn't even notice unless you were looking for it.
A white sneaker toe is sticking out from the bottom of the gap.
I drop to my knees. I look into the space between the freezer and the wall and there he is. Wedged into the gap, on the floor, his knees pulled up to his chest, his arms wrapped over his head, rocking. Small, rhythmic movements. Forward and back. Forward and back. The way a child rocks when the world gets too loud and the only thing left is the motion.
He's not crying. His eyes are open but they're not seeing this room, or me. They're somewhere else. Somewhere I can't reach.
"Stormy," I say softly. The softest I've ever said anything. "Stormy, it's me. It's Tex. You're safe. He's gone. He left. He's not here anymore. He's not taking you, baby. I won't let him take you, I swear."
The rocking doesn't stop. His arms tighten over his head. He's somewhere the sound of my voice can't reach yet.
I sit down on the kitchen floor. I lean my back against the opposite wall, close enough that he can see my feet, hear my breathing, know I'm here, but not so close that I'm blocking the gap. Not so close that he's trapped.
"I'm right here," I say. "I'm not going anywhere. Take all the time you need. I'm right here. It's going to be okay, Stormy. You're Stormy now, remember? You're okay, baby."
The rocking slows. His breathing changes. I see his fingers flex where they're gripping his own arms, white-knuckled, leaving marks.
I wait the same way I'll always wait for him.
