Stolen Dreams (Stone Bay #4)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

RAY

Past

“I never wanted this!” Brianna flails her hands dramatically around the room. “To be a mother. To be… attached to the same person for the rest of my life.”

Crossing my arms over my chest, I snort then laugh without humor. “Bit late for that, Bri.” I glance down the hall toward our bedroom, praying our fight—one of several over the past two and a half years since learning we’d be parents—doesn’t wake Tucker. “You are a mother. I am a father.” I gesture between us. “We are parents. And we will always be attached —to each other and our child.”

Her entire frame stiffens as she curls her hands into tight fists at her sides. “Don’t talk to me like a fucking idiot, Ray,” she grits out between clenched teeth. “Just because I gave birth doesn’t mean I want to be a mother. Doesn’t mean I have to be. Maybe someone else should take him.”

Spinning on her heel, she heads for the door and dons her coat.

“What the hell does that mean?”

Brianna keeps her back to me as she picks up her purse and riffles through it. An exasperated huff floats through the room as she tosses the purse down and darts around me for the hallway. “Did you take my keys?”

I bolt after her, hoping to stop her from turning the bedroom upside down with Tucker in his toddler bed. When Brianna gets like this, she doesn’t care about anyone except herself.

Well, that’s not entirely true. There is one other thing she cares about.

Several months ago, I walked in on Brianna in the bathroom as she popped a couple pills into her mouth. Concern wrinkled my forehead as I met her gaze in the mirror. Worried she had a cold and needed isolation so Tucker didn’t catch whatever she had, I opened my mouth to ask what was wrong and how I could help.

But I snapped my mouth shut the moment I glanced down at the vanity. An unlabeled prescription bottle sat uncapped on the counter. None of the pills inside the small container the same shape or color.

In a flash, a million questions ran through my head.

What is she taking?

How long has she been taking them?

Does she take them when alone with Tucker?

As I held her gaze in the mirror, I asked the first question. She’d given me a plausible answer.

“I’ve been getting migraines. A guy at work said he used to get them and tried a few medications before he found one that worked. He gave me a few to try.”

At the time, like a naive fool, I believed her. The stress of parenthood, plus working insane hours on opposite schedules so we were with Tucker as often as possible, took its toll on us both. Brianna hadn’t given me a reason not to trust her, and the last thing I needed to do was divide us with my irrational thoughts.

But I should have pushed the subject. I should have asked more questions or taken a closer look at the pills.

Not long after that day, Brianna morphed into someone else. Someone unrecognizable.

As her sparkle dulled, my guilt and concern multiplied.

I should’ve said more that day in the bathroom. Should’ve offered to adjust my schedule and give her more downtime. Should’ve paid closer attention after the night she popped those pills.

There’s so much I should’ve done but didn’t do. In my own way, I care for her. Trust her. And she played me like the gull I am.

“No, Bri, I didn’t take your keys,” I whisper-hiss in the dimly lit bedroom.

She shuffles everything on top of the dresser, not giving a damn about the noise.

Tucker squirms and rolls over in his toddler bed, less than five feet from my side of our queen mattress. But he doesn’t wake, thank goodness.

Brianna continues the hunt for her car keys, tossing things on the floor as she moves from one spot to the next. When she starts toward the nightstand between our bed and Tucker, I step in front of her and extend my arms.

“No,” I whisper with firm authority. “Your keys aren’t over here. And you will not wake and scare Tucker by throwing shit near him.”

Brianna tries to push past me, but I hold my ground.

“Asshole.” The insult echoes loudly off the walls before she pivots and storms out of the room.

Dropping my arms, I inhale a slow, deep, steadying breath.

I can’t do this anymore.

I glance over my shoulder at my sweet, jovial, innocent son.

He shouldn’t have to live like this either.

Exiting the bedroom, I ease the door shut but leave it open a few inches. As I enter the living room, my gaze drifts to Brianna as she upends the sofa cushions and digs between the cracks. Frenetic energy floats throughout the apartment as she knocks over pictures and keepsakes without care.

“We should move to Stone Bay.”

My words make her freeze. Straightening her spine, she peers over her shoulder, a scowl carved into her features. “So that’s how it is?”

Narrowing my eyes slightly, I tilt my head, confused. “How what is, Bri?”

“Life gets shitty, so you run back to Mommy and Daddy.”

I fight the urge to act as childish as she is, knowing it won’t better the situation. “Who said anything about running?” Inching closer to her, I reach for her arm. Extend a proverbial olive branch. “We need help, Bri. And my family would love to be there for us and Tucker.”

She scoffs and shakes her head. “Of course.” Disdain coats her tone.

And just like that, I’m over being the nice guy. Done bending over backward for this woman who seems to give no fucks about me or our son. “Of course, what?” I ask, my tone and volume matching hers.

The corner of her mouth twitches. A twinkle dances in her eyes. As if me going toe to toe with her brings her some perverse sense of joy. Before I have time to explore why, a deadpan expression replaces her scorn.

“What about my family, Ray?” She stabs the center of her chest with a finger. “Do they not count?”

“That’s not what I said. Don’t put words in my mouth.”

Turning her back on me, she goes back to searching for her keys.

“You don’t talk about your family much, Bri. And the little you have shared…” I drag a hand through my hair. “You haven’t painted a pretty picture.”

Eyes downcast, she shoulder-checks me as she passes and enters the open kitchen. “They weren’t the best parents, but they’re still my family.”

Now she is throwing bullshit to see what will stick. Fine. If that is how she wants to play, I can throw it right back.

“Really?”

She pauses and peeks over her shoulder, eyes narrowed, but doesn’t say a word.

“We’ve been together how long?” Before I give her a chance to answer, I continue. “Not once have we or you spent time with them. Not once have you texted or spoken with them on the phone.” As each word leaves my lips, the irritation flowing through my veins builds, expands, becomes borderline explosive. “Do they even know about Tucker?”

Whipping around, she stomps across the room and shoves at my chest. “Fuck you.”

Am I the asshole for that last jab? Yeah, I am. My parents would reprimand me for saying such a callous thing to the mother of my child. Regardless, the question needs to be asked.

Brianna and I need help raising Tucker. Period.

It isn’t about money. If finances were an issue, I’d ask my parents for a loan. They’d happily lend me whatever we needed and wave me off every time I tried to pay it back.

What we need is someone willing to help with day care. Sure, Tucker could go to a place nearby and develop social skills early. He could play with other kids around his age and start preschool learning before most children. The list of perks is extensive.

But the bill for childcare would eat up most of one of our salaries. One or both of us would have to shift our schedules to accommodate the day care’s business hours. We’d have to work extra hours to foot the bill and still have enough to live after.

Which is why our schedules are the way they are now.

“It’s a shitty question.” And not one I regret asking. “Doesn’t make it any less valid.”

Fists trembling at her sides, she works her jaw back and forth. Any moment, I expect Brianna to swing. To punch or slap me in the face. To scream and tell me to go to hell.

Instead, she spins around and storms to the fridge. She whips the door open, shuffles the contents from one side to the other, grabs a bottle of beer, then lets out a squeal of delight.

I hear the jingle of her keys as she takes a step back. A smile I haven’t seen in far too long lights her face as she closes the fridge door and faces me. It’s the same smile that lured me closer to her. The smile that gives me an ounce of hope.

“Bri…” Her shortened name is soft on my tongue.

“Just let me have tonight,” she pleas, her anger and frustration from a moment ago gone. “We can talk about it tomorrow.”

Tomorrow is one of those rare occasions we both have the day off. It’s the perfect time to sit down, talk about the future, and map out what steps to take next.

“Sure. Yeah.” I glance toward the bedroom door. “Maybe lunch at the park with Tucker.”

Her smile grows impossibly brighter. “Sounds like a wonderful idea.” Stepping into me, she wraps her arms around my middle. “Sorry for yelling. It’s not fair to dump on you like that.”

The swift change in her demeanor is pleasant yet unsettling.

I hug her tighter to my chest. “Your stress is mine too. We need to be able to talk about what’s bothering us. It’s the only way we’ll get through this together.”

She releases me and takes a step back. “Still, I said some pretty shitty things.”

Yes, she did. But I wasn’t nice either.

Lifting a hand to her cheek, I brush the hair out of her face. “Tomorrow, everything will be better.” As the words leave my lips, I will them into existence.

Brianna nods, pushes up on her toes, and kisses my cheek. Then she turns for the door, swipes up her purse, drops the beer inside, and reaches for the dead bolt. “Shouldn’t be long. Don’t wait up.”

Something about those last three words and her tone twists my insides. But I shove it down, remind myself she is the mother of my child and I need to trust her, then promise myself to address it in the morning.

“Be safe, Bri.”

Her dark hair swishes as she peeks over her shoulder, that radiant smile on her lips. “I will.” Then she’s out the door.

Over the next hour, I tidy up the mess she made throughout the apartment. I turn off the light in the living room and kitchen but leave the hood light over the stove on.

When my head hits the pillow, the weight of the evening crashes down on me hard. But I don’t mull over it. Instead, I tell myself we will clear things up tomorrow. One more sleep, then Brianna and I will sort out the future.

With that final thought, I let go of my worries and pass out.

Sunlight peeks through the blinds as I wake the next morning.

I tilt my head left then right, cracking my neck. Twist in place, waking my muscles. Stretch an arm and find the spot next to me in bed empty and cold.

After last night, it honestly wouldn’t surprise me if Brianna slept on the couch. When things get heated or she stays out past midnight, her crashing on the couch isn’t abnormal.

Tonight will be different. Once we air our concerns and come up with a resolution, we will start anew.

Pulling back the covers, I swing my legs off the bed and sit up. As it does every morning, my gaze automatically goes to Tucker’s bed.

Empty.

I glance at the alarm clock—a little after eight. Usually I’m up with him around seven, but I must’ve been so exhausted that I slept through his morning routine of waking me up. He’s probably on the couch with Brianna, watching his favorite show on the tablet.

After I use the bathroom and brush my teeth, I slip on a pair of sweatpants and head for the living room.

“Who wants panca—” The word dies on my tongue as I enter an empty, still tidy living room. “Bri? Tucker?”

No response. No sound. Nothing.

“Fuck!”

I race back into the bedroom, grab my phone off the charger, and open my text history with Brianna. Tapping on her picture, I glance down to see her location, but there’s no map. My pulse whooshes in my ears as I scroll down, thinking maybe my phone updated and the map moved.

But there is nothing.

Closing the contact info, I type out a message and hit send.

Did you take T out for breakfast without me? lol

Red flag one: I can’t see Brianna’s location.

Red flag two: the text bubble is green instead of blue.

Red flag three: there’s no indication the message has been delivered like usual.

This is not happening.

I tap on her profile picture again, tap the phone icon, and bounce in place as it rings in my ear. The call connects.

“We’re sorry, the person you are trying to reach is no longer reachable at this number. Please try again later.”

No, no, no.

“Where the fuck are you, Bri?” I all but yell as I storm to the bedroom and open the blinds.

I dash to the closet, my eyes immediately dropping to the floor. Tucker’s three pairs of shoes are missing. The small supply of diapers we keep while potty training him is gone. My gaze drifts up to the hangers, several of Brianna’s empty.

How the hell did I not hear her emptying the closet?

My limbs start to shake. My vision blurs. White noise fills my ears as I gasp for air that won’t seem to come.

I bolt for the dresser and open the drawers reserved for Tucker. Empty.

Pressing the heal of my palm to the center of my chest, a sob rips from my throat. Sharp pain ricochets through my legs as my knees smack the floor.

“What d-did you do, Bri?”

Hands trembling, I tap the phone icon, dial the number no one ever wants to call and lift the phone to my ear.

“9-1-1, this is a recorded line. Please state your emergency.”

I inhale a shaky breath as tears roll down my cheeks. “My son has been taken.”