Page 99 of Scouting the Single Dad

I force easy into my tone. “C’mon, kiddo. We’re wheels up in five.”

Dang kid. Usually very easygoing. When she goes quiet, it’s because she’s sleeping or reading or playing a game on her tablet, not because she’s staging a protest.

“Benny?” I knock my knuckles on her bedroom door and push it open. “You all right?”

She doesn’t leap out at me from the closet. Doesn’t giggle. Doesn’t laugh when I crouch down on the floor to look under the bed—it’s just a dust bunny, a lone sock. A chunky silver-and-rhinestone ring.

Her bathroom? Empty. Linen closet? Empty.

I circle back to the living room, peer behind the couch, part the drapes. Look behind the TV hutch angled in the corner of the room.

“I feel like I’m searching for my Easter basket,” I joke. “This is no time to play hide-and-seek,” I warn her. “We have to leave for school, Bernadette.”

No answer.

I head for the mudroom again. Layla pushes off the stool at the counter to join me in my search.

The air shifts. That creeping sensation settles in my gut—I know her better than anyone, and she’s not here.

I head for the mudroom again, urgency climbing my throat.

Pulling open the door to the garage, I glance around: hooks full of stadium seats, umbrellas, hiking backpacks. Our bikes. The lawn mower. Workbench.

Cold morning air hits my chest as I press my hand to the big doors and they begin to rise, along with a wave of dread, my eyes going to where her scooter helmet typically hangs. That is empty—so is the scooter rack.

I don’t breathe for a beat.

Benny isn’t hiding—she’s gone.

Chapter 24

Layla

“Where would she go?” I ask, voice hollow, like the house swallowed the soft parts of it.

“Park or Skylar’s,” Hayes says, already moving. His jaw is tight in a way I didn’t see last night. “I’ll take the cut-through. You check the street.”

“Okay.” I nod with confidence but have no idea where I’m going or where to look.

I’ve only been here a handful of days, and every adobe-colored house looks the same. Wide driveways, scrubby yards with mesquite trees throwing stingy shade. Cacti. The kind of place where space yawns between houses, wide enough for the desert to reclaim if it weren’t for the landscapers.

“Benny!” I call, aiming for bright calm—the voice you use with skittish puppies and kids on the verge. “Benny Boo Boo!”

No answer. Just the sprinkler two doors down that ticks on, and the heat lifting off the sidewalk despite it only being seven thirty.

Where would a nine-year-old go here?

There’s nothing in this neighborhood except houses, a park with swings and a slide at the end of it. Any businesses are well over a mile away—if not more—and she can’t reach her school by foot, not even with her scooter or bike.

I walk and walk some more.

“Benny!” I try again. “Time for school!”

A neighbor eases his big SUV out of the driveway and slows when he sees my face. Window down, forearm on the ledge. “Everything okay?”

“Looking for Benny Fielder. She might’ve scooted off.”

He grimaces, already nodding. “I’ll loop the block.” He pulls away; I keep moving.