Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 69129 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69129 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
“All bedder.” Wiggling completely out of my grasp occurs prior to him pointing. “Slide?”
“Go on,” I sweetly encourage, hearing my cell ring from the nearby bench Hill is guarding. “I’ll race you down it in a minute.”
“Now.”
“Phone first. Race second.”
His eyebrows dart down in displeasure.
“That’s the deal, Little Fins. Take or leave it.”
“Deal,” is muttered in exasperation under his breath.
“Come on, Wy,” Jessie warmly encourages with a smile. “You can practice race with me while you wait for Mom.”
“Tatch me!”
Like someone turned on the Bat signal, my son takes off for the playground with his nanny tightly on his heels.
The trek over to the bench that’s occupying Wy’s backpack, his go bag – potty training is a bitch – and my clutch is short; however, mere steps away from closing the distance, Hill touches his earpiece, indicating he’s receiving a message.
And that message twitches his eyebrows.
Tightens his jaw.
Has his hand heading for his holster which is what prompts me to turn back towards the playground just in time to hear, “Noooooooooooo!”
“Wyland,” leaves me in a whisper as I take off to find him.
“Wyland!” Jessie screams while weaving around active children. “Wyland!”
“Where the fuck is my son?!” I screech sprinting to the space where he should be but clearly isn’t. “Where the fuck did he go?!”
“I-I-I-I don’t know!” his nanny frantically exclaims body dropping to its knees to search the hiding spaces underneath the structure. “We split in opposite directions to race for the stairs, but when I got there-”
“Wylanndddddd!!!!”
“-he wasn’t there! And I didn’t see him!” She frenziedly crawls around while I search higher ground. “I immediately called out for Jeff-”
“Jeff?!”
“Hurst,” Jessie cringe corrects. “I immediately called for Hurst who alerted Hill.”
Who unbeknownst to himself alerted me.
Still not seeing or hearing or even sensing him pushes me to holler again, “Wylannnddddd!!!”
“Wyland!” Lurch bellows during his own sweeping of the premises. “Out! Now!”
Other children scatter, some towards their parents, some simply towards other playground equipment, yet there’s no sign of my son.
And I heard him.
I know that was him.
I would know that voice…that scream…anywhere.
Any time.
“Wyyyyyyy!” seeps loose again as I continue the world’s shittiest game of hide-and-seek. “Forfuckssake, please come out!”
“Language,” hisses another mother at the same time she cups her daughter’s ears. “That’s a swear jar word.”
Irritation has me stopping to chomp her ass out like I’m about to star in some Sharknado spinoff yet instinct has me swallowing my pride to inquire, “Have you seen my son? He’s two and half, might look three? An adorable little boy in a bright yellow bowtie and Batman chucks? He’s missing.”
Compassion – thankfully – conquers over her criticisms, “Someone called him over there.” Her chin kicks in the direction of the small, connected botanical garden. “I didn’t see who, but they said his name like they knew him.”
But they didn’t.
Because if they did then I would know who they were.
And where they were.
And where to find my fucking kid.
“No! No! No!” his tiny familiar voice barks in the distance propelling me away from the bobbed hair woman towards the shrieking that seems to becoming from the left. “No!”
The right.
“No!”
Behind me.
“No!”
Confusion clashes into consternation causing me to spin in pointless circles, anxious to spot a clue, a tiny inkling regarding the direction I should be taking to get my baby back.
“Nonono!” comes slightly more clearly from the area she referenced and the instant my attention snaps to it, I manage to catch a glimpse of son’s profile. “Mommmmmmmm!”
“Wyland!” I shriek in tandem with sprinting. “I’m coming! Mom’s coming!” Without care or concern about the others in my path, I aggressively knock them out of my way, every instinct inside of me screaming that nothing else matters. No one else matters. Just my son. Just Wy. “I’m cominggggg!”
The sight of his little face disappearing behind the thick foliage of the garden’s side entry pushes my body to move faster than I ever imagined possible. Ignoring the pain from running in these stupid designer sandals is easy knowing that little dude’s life depends on it, just like it is to forget how insane I appear flailing and shouting to onlookers to stop the black hooded figure that’s snaking around bushes and benches with a crying child in tow.
“Stop them!” Jumping over a low to the ground hedge occurs in tandem with me proclaiming, “That’s my fucking son!”
Despite my running and hollering and profanity, no one does anything.
Not.
A.
Fucking.
Thing.
I dash past bird watchers moaning about sandhill cranes and bump into texting tweens fangirling over some college hockey player responding to one of their comments.
The young girls scoff at the inconvenience yet still make no effort to help.
Or call out to anyone else to help.
Or offer to dial the cops.
“Bryn!” shouts Lurch from somewhere behind me.
“Stop them!” I repeatedly plead to every onlooker in their path. “Forfuckssakethatsmyson!”
Nothing changes.
“Mommmmmm!”
Nothing stops.