“Ben!” I scramble out of bed, tripping on the dangling end of my sheet as I rush toward the bathroom, desperately hoping he’s in there and not outside.
Empty.
Shit.
I bolt out of our room and onto the landing, looking one way, then the other. It’s a bright, crisp morning with blue skies and white clouds, the start of another beautiful day, but there’s no sign of Ben anywhere.
The motel is two stories tall. We’re on the second floor, with a railing and stairs that lead down to the parking lot. I thought being up here, not in a room that opened onto the parking lot,would be safer for Ben and me. Instead, I’ve opened him up to more danger: steep stairs.
What if he fell?
I rush toward them, yelling, “BEN!” at the top of my voice.
Someone shouts at me to be quiet from one of the rooms I pass. It’s not even 7 a.m., yet, but I don’t care who I wake. My son is missing. Ignoring them, I sprint down the stairs, still yelling.
He’s not lying dead or with a broken arm or leg at the bottom of the stairs, so he has to be okay, right?
Maybe he tried to wake me up, and when he couldn’t, he wandered off to find some way to entertain himself. Never mind that I brought more toys than clothes, and I’m forever stepping on Lego. That wasn’t good enough. He has to give me a heart attack by running off.
Calm down. He is okay. Just focus on finding him.
“BEN!” My eyes rake over the nearly full parking lot, breathing so fast I’m nearly hyperventilating.
I sprint toward the front desk, a separate small building, scaring the shit out of the clerk, who jumps to his feet when I burst in through the front door, speaking a million miles an hour.
The clerk, a black-haired man in his late thirties, stares at me, a large coffee spill down the front of his white shirt. “What!”
“My son. Have you seen my son? His name is Ben, and he’s about this tall, with brown hair and green eyes. He was wearing red fire truck PJs and is probably barefoot.”
Ben could have gotten dressed before he left our room, but he struggles with buttons. If he woke up bored, I can’t see him bothering to change before he wandered off. When he’s excited to explore, nothing matters more than finding his next adventure. Not even putting on shoes first.
The clerk’s gaze drops to where I’m holding my hand to show Ben’s height. His fingers tighten around his white mug, and he swallows so hard, I track the bobbing of his Adam’s apple.
Which is when I realize he’s not listening to a word I’m saying because I’m in an old college t-shirt that hits me mid-thigh. I didn’t even stop to put on shoes before I ran out the door.
“Forget it,” I mutter and rush out. I’m just wasting my time.
Looking right and left, I head toward the road. Ben wouldn’t go to the back of the motel. He would go looking for people to make new friends. It’s too early for any guests to be awake, so there would be no one back there. But he’s not on the street. He’s not anywhere, and I don’t know where to start looking for him. Should I keep looking or run back to my room to grab my cell phone and call the cops?
I rake a hand through my hair, hyperventilating.
This is bad. This is so, so bad.
What if someone kidnapped him?
What if someone ran him over and he’s in the hospital dying?
What if?—
“Hey!”
The man’s concerned voice penetrates my terror, and I whip around.
He’s standing feet away, wearing blue jeans, a t-shirt, and his shoulder-length dark-brown hair hangs loose around his face. “Are you okay?”
I stare at him, panic making it hard to think as I try to remember where I last saw him. “You were singing at the diner.” He had a white apron, and his hair was tied back. He’s shaved his stubble since.
His lips twitch. “Winston. I’m the cook at Nico’s, but everyone calls me Win. I heard you yelling on my way to work and pulled over. What’s wrong?”
