The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 13

"Archie, time to go."

It was the third time Sloane had called out before she finally registered the dead silence.

She whipped around.

The space in front of the giant squid exhibit was completely empty. There was nothing but the eerie blue lighting illuminating the massive, pale creature behind the glass, its tentacles suspended in artificial waters.

Her son, who had been standing there just seconds ago, bragging about how the squid's eyes were the size of basketballs, was gone.

"Archie?" Sloane's voice sounded pitifully thin in the cavernous hall.

There was no cheerful "Right here, Mom!"

Pure, icy dread crawled up her spine, instantly shattering her haze. Sloane broke into a sprint, tearing through the nearby exhibits, her eyes scanning every gap, every corner. "Archie! Archie!"

The only response was the baffled stares of passing tourists.

Panic crashed over her like freezing water. She bolted back to the squid exhibit, searching like a madwoman—was he hiding behind one of the interactive screens? Did he run off to look at the shark teeth? Nothing!

She grabbed a passing staff member, her words tumbling out in frantic English. "My son! Five years old! Red jacket! Lost!"

The employee realizing the gravity of the situation, immediately grabbed his walkie-talkie. Moments later, an urgent missing-child announcement echoed through the museum in both Swedish and English.

Every passing second tightened the invisible vise around Sloane's chest. Ten minutes bled by. Still no sign of him.

Taking a ragged breath, she pulled out her phone and called Garrison, her fingers trembling violently.

Nobody asked Sloane for details. Nobody asked what had happened.

As Garrison walked past her, he finally threw her a glance. His eyes were cold, toxic darts of rage and profound disappointment.

"You better pray he's okay."

With that, he stormed off.

Winter daylight in Stockholm was notoriously short, and as the clock edged toward four, the sky was already dimming. The museum, the surrounding streets, and the parking lots had been scoured. The police were expanding the perimeter, questioning nearby shop owners.

Sloane was instructed to wait at the visitor center, just in case Archie was found and needed his mother. She sat on the freezing concrete steps, her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles were white. The intercom broadcasted the missing person alert in three languages every fifteen minutes. With every repetition, her heart plummeted a little further into despair.