Mister Dream Man

Chapter Eight

* Jana *

The clock ticked louder than it should have.

I sat cross-legged on the worn couch, arms wrapped around a threadbare pillow, my eyes locked on the rust-speckled screen door that banged every time the wind shook the tiny house. The rain had started an hour ago, soft at first, like whispers on the roof, but now it pounded against the metal sheets with a desperate, angry rhythm.

It was already past six. My mom should've been home by now.

I didn't go with her today, my stomach had hurt in the morning, a dull cramp twisting me up, and Amanda, my mother, had told me to stay. "Rest," she said, brushing the hair from my forehead with her cool fingers. "Edward's here. You'll be fine."

But Edward wasn't exactly here. He was holed up in his room with his headphones on, the volume so loud I could feel the bass rumbling through the floorboards. When I first asked him about mom, right after four o'clock, he'd rolled his eyes and muttered, "She's late. So what?" The second time, he didn't even bother taking the headphones off.

"Edward," I called again now, my voice breaking through the steady clatter of rain. "She should've been back by now, right? What if something—"

"God, Jana, can you not?" he snapped from the other room. "I'm not her keeper."

I bit the inside of my cheek and turned away.

I hated when he used that tone. Like my worry was stupid. Like I wasn't old enough to notice when things didn't feel right. But I was old enough, old enough to count the hours. Old enough to know the difference between late and gone.

I glanced at the window. The streetlight outside flickered against the curtain, casting shadows that moved too much for my liking. Mom's umbrella wasn't on the hook. Her work shoes weren't by the door.

She hadn't come back.

I stood, the floor cold against my bare feet as I walked to the kitchen. The silence in the house wasn't peaceful, it was taut, stretched thin over something invisible but heavy, like a string ready to snap. I opened the cupboard slowly, my stomach growling, but all we had were canned beans and some half-stale crackers. No one had cooked. No one had even tried.

I thought of calling Geraldine, my older sister, who is in the back room and worked evenings at the club near the pier, but she'd left in a rush, applying lipstick with one hand and tossing her heels into a bag with the other.

"She'll be fine," Geraldine had said with a shrug, zipping her coat. "Maybe she got extra shifts. You know Mom. Always working."

But I did know my mom. And she always came home before dark. Always.

I moved back to the couch, curling tighter this time, my arms hugging the pillow so hard it hurt my ribs. I watched the rain until the windows blurred. Then she watched the door. Just in case the handle turned. Just in case those work shoes stepped back onto the mat.

Nothing. Just the wind. The storm. The cold. And the growing space where my mother should've been.

A space I didn't know how to fill. I reached for the old phone on the table, Mama's backup phone, the one she sometimes let me use to play games. It still had some battery. I scrolled through the last texts. Nothing new.

One message to Geraldine. Another to someone listed as "M. Office." Then nothing.

A hollow sound scraped down my throat. I didn't cry, not yet, but my chest ached like I was holding something in too long.

I whispered, "Mom, where are you?"

The storm gave no answer. Only the feeling, deep and certain, that something was wrong. And no one else was looking for her.

After a few minutes of waiting, the door didn't just knock, it slammed.

Wood banged against its frame with such violence I jumped, the pillow slipping from my arms as I stumbled back a step. The storm howled louder now, pressing against the house like it wanted in. And maybe it already had, because the air changed.

Something heavy moved outside.

"Edward?" I called out, fear flattening my voice.

No answer. Then again, bam, the door flew open. He stepped inside like the storm had carved a path for him.

Tall, wet, furious, Lawrence Dankworth. I knew him. Everyone in town did. Rich boy turned colder-than-winter man, heir to the Dankworth fortune and the shiny buildings uptown we weren't even allowed to look at for too long. His tailored coat was soaked, rain dripping from his sleeves onto our cracked linoleum floor like he didn't care whose home it was. Behind him, three men in black coats filed in, broader, rougher, like shadows with boots.

"What the—" Edward's voice finally snapped from the hallway, footsteps thudding toward the living room. "Who the hell?"

But Lawrence cut through the room like a blade, his pale eyes scanning everything, sharp, cruel, and looking for something.

"Where is she?" he barked.

He wasn't asking. He was demanding. Edward reached the doorway and froze. "Who the hell are you?"

Lawrence's head snapped to him. "Where is Amanda Kramer?"

My breath stopped.

"What?" Edward asked, eyes narrowing.

"Don't play dumb," Lawrence spat. "She cleaned my family's suite at Magnolia Resort. She was the last one inside before the ring disappeared."

He took a slow, menacing step forward. "My mother's pink diamond ring. A priceless heirloom. Gone. And your mother? Missing."

My hands trembled, curling into the hem of my sweater. "She wouldn't," I whispered. But no one heard me.

"She wouldn't do that!" Edward shouted louder, stepping forward, blocking Lawrence's path. "Our mom's not a thief!"

"Then where is she?" Lawrence growled, stepping closer until they were almost nose to nose. "Why is she hiding?"

"I don't know!" Edward shouted, shoving him back, but one of the men moved, a warning, and Edward froze. Lawrence raised his hand, signaling the men. He was mad but I couldn't help my eyes that admired him secretly. I gulp down a lump in my throat, turn between my teenage crush for him and the worry about my mother.

And they moved.

One went to the hallway. Another pushed past the couch. The third, tall, mean-eyed, strode toward the bedrooms.

"Hey! You can't just—!" Edward lunged, but Lawrence grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the wall.

I screamed.

"You want to tell me what's going on?" Lawrence hissed. "Then tell me where she is. Right now."

"I DON'T KNOW!" Edward roared back, red-faced and struggling. "She didn't come home! She's never late! Something's wrong!"

The words cracked the air. Lawrence paused. For a breath, even the storm seemed to still.

The anger on his face didn't fade, it sharpened, turned icy. "So you're saying she ran. With it."

"No!" I choked out. "She's missing!"

He turned to me then, really looked at me, his eyes wanting to devour me whole now that he noticed I was there. Like a child shouldn't be allowed to speak.

"Who are you?" he snapped.

"Jana," I whispered. "I'm her daughter."

His face didn't soften. He just turned to his men. "Turn the place over. If the ring's here, we find it now."

And they did.

Drawers flung open. Cabinets yanked. Cushions thrown to the floor. One of them knocked over a photo frame, our last family picture, shattering glass across the floor. They didn't apologize.

"Stop!" I cried. "This is our home! STOP IT!"

Edward broke free, diving into the living room, trying to grab one of the men, but the biggest one slammed him back onto the couch, pinning him there.

Lawrence didn't even flinch. His gaze was on our narrow hallway, eyes scanning each shadow like a hunter tracking prey.

"She doesn't have it," I whispered again, tears finally spilling now, my small voice drowned by drawers slamming and furniture dragging. "Please... she doesn't have it."

He didn't look at me. He just said coldly, "If she didn't take it, why is she gone?"

No one had an answer. Not even the storm. Because none of us really knew where is my mother.