Page 110 of Stolen Dreams
Her brows knit together, her coppery-brown eyes locked on mine. “I need to be there. And he’s going to need all of us.”
Taking her hand, I lace our fingers. “As long as you’re sure.”
We leave the conference room and head for the front door, Mom and Dad behind us. Outside, we cram into my parents’ SUV to lessen the number of vehicles to hide.
The drive to the train yard is quiet. Every possible scenario plays in my head as the miles disappear. As we approach the building, an officer flags us to stop and directs us where to park. One visible vehicle is expected. The cops contacted the yard’s manager and were able to access a building to park two cars in.
Kaya and my parents duck just inside the closest building.
I stand out in the open on an empty patch of dirt between the building and the tracks, a black duffel in my hand. Sweat soaks my shirt as my heart pounds viciously in my chest. My gaze roams the trees, the tracks, the sides of the buildings, the street that ends at the station.
I tighten my hold on the bag. Take a deep breath, then another. Count to ten in an effort to settle my nerves, to calm the nausea clawing its way up my throat.
Light bounces off one of the buildings as the sound of gravel crunching hits my ears. A commercial van rolls closer, and I swallow past the fear-shaped lump in my throat.
Get Tucker to safety. That’s the only thing that matters.
THIRTY-FOUR
RAY
The van comesto a stop at the end of the drive. Bright beams light up the tracks and faintly touch the tree line.
Feet rooted to the earth, I grip the duffel straps tighter and never take my eyes off the van. The passenger door opens, my breath catches in my throat as I wait to see who steps forward.
Please be Tucker. Please, please, please.
As the person clears the door, my heart sinks. It isn’t Tucker. This person is too tall, too scrawny.Brianna.
She steps in front of the van, blocks one of the headlights, and maintains considerable distance. “You have the money?”
Have the drugs completely rotted her brain?
What kind of person does this to their own child? Who holds their son for ransom, inflicts enough trauma for a lifetime, suggests asking for more money, and doesn’t give a single fuck how it will impact their future?
It’s beyond me how I felt any positive or loving emotions for Brianna Werner.
When I was oblivious to her escapades, I often pictured a future with her. A beautiful house with a huge backyard, another child or two, smiles and laughter, both of us happy inour careers, growing old and gray. Watching our babies have children of their own.
For more than a year, I relished those fantasies. To me, they were real, tangible, perfect. Unfortunately, I had been a fool. An ignorant man too lost in daydreams to see reality as it unfolded.
The saddest part is I’d do it all again just to have Tucker.
I lift my arm and shake the bag. “Of course I do. Where’s Tucker?”
She takes a step closer and holds out her hand. “Give me the money.”
With a shake of my head, I snort. “You’re fucking joking, right?” I swing the duffel behind me and clutch it with both hands. “You don’t get shit until I have Tucker.”
“I don’t trust you to give me the money if I hand him over.” Her hands tremble at her sides, presumably from lack of a fix and not nerves.
“Does it look like I give a damn if you trust me?” I swing the duffel around, hold it up, and dangle it between us. “The only way you get this bag is if I have Tucker in my arms. Period.”
A curse leaves her lips as the driver’s door opens.
I squint to make out the person but see nothing with the headlights aimed my way.
They walk around the back of the van. The screech of metal scraping echoes through the balmy night air and bounces off the trees. Gravel crunches as the other person mutters something unintelligible. A beat passes before two figures come into view, and I know with absolute certainty one of them is Tucker.