Page 1 of Missing

Chapter 1

Harper Hillstrom

The moment I twisted the faucet, scalding water cascaded down like salvation, washing away the grime of a long shift at Lola's Diner. I stood there, letting the steam wrap around me, a shroud of warmth in the otherwise chilly, silent bathroom.

"God, what would I do without that place?" I murmured to myself, the sound drowned beneath the drumming shower head.

It had been nearly seven years since Michael took a chance on a scrappy girl with more attitude than experience – a girl who had learned to withstand life's relentless blows. I vividly recalled the moment I stepped into Lola's, my worn sneakers sticking to the faded linoleum floor. My heart raced against ribs that knew hunger all too well.

"Give me one reason why I should hire you," Michael had challenged, his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned back against the counter like a king surveying his kingdom – which, in this small town diner, he practically was.

"Because no one will work harder than me," I had shot back without hesitation, every fibre of my being conveying my determination.

And I never let him down. Not once. For seven years, I poured my heart and soul into my work at Lola's, proving to Michael and myself that I was capable of overcoming any obstacle thrown my way.

I lathered my hair, the cheap shampoo stinging my eyes with its chemical tang. But it was a good sting—a clean sting that washed away the grime and stress of the day. As suds swirled towards the drain, so did my thoughts, circling like vultures around the one constant truth: I owed Michael big time. He’d become a sort of stand-in for the family I never quite had, the father figure I didn't dare admit I needed in my life.

With a heavy sigh, I shut off the water and stepped out onto the faded linoleum floor, reaching for a well-worn towel that had seen better days. The mirror was fogged up, hiding my reflection behind a hazy veil. And maybe that was for the best. Sometimes I didn’t want to see the tired green eyes staring back at me, eyes that had seen too much and yet still held onto some flicker of determination and fire.

"Harper, is that you?" a slurred voice called from the living room as I padded my way across the cold tile floor.

"Who else would it be, Ma?" I replied with a hint of exasperation. The cramped apartment was constantly permeated with the pungent smell of alcohol, seeping in through every crevice and filling the air.

As I pushed open the bathroom door, I already knew what I would find. My mother lay sprawled out on the threadbare carpet, one hand loosely gripping a lit cigarette that threatened to leave scorch marks on the worn fabric.

"Jesus, Ma," I said as I hurried to her side, snatching the cigarette from her grasp. "You trying to turn our home into ashes while we sleep?"

"Leave me alone, Harper," she mumbled, her words slurring together in a tired sigh.

"I can't just leave you like this, Ma. You could burn the whole place down." With a sense of relief, I dropped the smouldering cigarette into the ashtray on the coffee table and watched as the glowing embers slowly faded. Just another crisis narrowly avoided another night where we were lucky enough to avoid making headlines on the evening news.

Gently, I draped a warm blanket over her sleeping form, the same way I had done countless times before. As I stood there, my eyes took in the sight of the woman who had given birth to me but never truly raised me, her peaceful face softened by the dim light filtering through the curtains.

With a quiet sigh, I whispered into the darkness, "Happy birthday to me," my words tinged with bitterness and a hint of longing. But desires were for children, and I was no longer a child. I was Harper Hillstrom, survivor, and tomorrow would be just another day.

The gentle hum of my old fan provided a soothing soundtrack for my troubled thoughts, its blades slicing through the thick stillness of my room. I lay on my bed, the familiar creaking of the springs beneath me as comforting as an old friend. And for once, I could feel the satisfying fullness in my belly—a rare luxury for someone like me.

"Never let you leave hungry," Michael had said earlier that evening, pushing a container of steaming spaghetti into my hands with a smile. His bright blue eyes searched mine for any hint of protest. "It's your birthday tomorrow, Harper. Gotta start celebrating early." The taste of his homemade sauce still lingered on my tongue, warming me from within like a ray of sunshine on a cold winter day, each bite a small testament to the kindness I'd found in an often unkind world. A world where moms passed out on living room floors and daughters picked up fallen cigarettes.

"Twenty-one," I muttered to the empty room, flipping over onto my back and staring at the ceiling where shadows danced in tune with the flickering light outside. "Big whoop."

What did age mean when every year tasted the same? Bitter, like the black coffee I slung daily at the diner. The sharp tang of caffeine and burnt beans lingered on my tongue as I trudged through another day, another year. Yet, part of me, a naive, hopeful fragment, clung to the idea that twenty-one could be different. It could be the year I finally break free from this cycle. The year when the tether to this place, to her, would snap, setting me adrift toward something better.

I scoffed, the sound cutting through the quiet like a knife. My fingers grazed over the fabric of my sheets, tracing patterns, finding comfort in the repetitive motion. "Who am I kidding?" I muttered under my breath. "Tomorrow is just Tuesday. Another day of dodging Ma's drunken swings and scraping tips off sticky tables."

But as sleep crept closer, wrapping around me like the night's cool embrace, I couldn't help but let my mind wander, constructing elaborate fantasies from the frayed threads of my desires. Maybe tomorrow, life would surprise me—throw me a bone, a hint of sweetness to cut through the unrelenting sourness of my days. But for now, all I could do was clutch onto hope and let it guide me through yet another monotonous night.

"Please," I whispered into the darkness, the word slipping out like a secret prayer, my voice trembling with desperation. The silence of the room enveloped me like a suffocating hug, and I longed for something, anything to break the monotony I had grown so accustomed to.

My eyelids grew heavy as I surrendered to the exhaustion, and the room spun gently into an abyss of dreams. Visions of a life filled with laughter instead of shouts, love instead of loneliness, swirled behind my closed lids like a vibrant tapestry. With one last conscious thought, I held onto the fragile hope that twenty-one might just be the start of something new - something warm, thrilling, and alive that would chase away the darkness that had consumed me for far too long.

Chapter 2

Harper Hillstrom

The persistent pounding on the door jolted me awake, a harsh interruption to the little bit of rest I could manage. I struggled to open my heavy eyelids, letting out a low groan as I rolled off the threadbare mattress that barely passed for a bed. My bare feet met the chill of the sticky linoleum floor as I stumbled towards the door, carefully avoiding my mother's slumbering body sprawled in the middle of the room. The faint scent of alcohol and stale cigarettes lingered in the air, a constant reminder of our struggles and hardships.

With a grumble, I dragged myself out of bed and stumbled towards the incessant knocking at my door. My hand ran through thick black hair in an attempt to tame the wild tangles. The knocking was persistent, like a drumbeat warning of impending doom. Irritation mingled with exhaustion as I reached the door, my heart pounding in my chest. I flung open the door, squinting against the blinding light that flooded into my dark apartment. And there he stood, a towering figure in a perfectly tailored suit that exuded power and wealth. His sharp features were cast in shadows, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses despite the early hour. A wave of designer cologne wafted off him, adding to his intimidating aura.

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