inside. I shut and lock the front door. “Is Mama paranoid or what?” I remove Jackson from his stroller. His body is sticky as I settle him on one hip. I peel off my T-shirt and invite cool air to flow in from the gap. “It sure is hot out there, huh? I’m ready for fall. Are you?” We walk to the kitchen, and I open the freezer and stick my head in and play peek-a-boo a few times. His hearty chuckle squeezes my heart until I think it might explode.
“Okay, let’s get you settled so Mama can make dinner.” I walk the few steps to deposit him in his Pack ’n Play by the kitchen table, except it’s not where I left it. I rotate, inch by inch. Chills stud the back of my neck. I stall in the kitchen, moving methodically to retrace my steps. I round the corner and shuffle toward the middle of the living room, until I bump into something: his playpen.
My nerves sizzle. I would never put the Pack ’n Play in the middle of the living room. Because of my sight, I place most furniture on the perimeter of every room, leaving a wide open space to pass through. I’m certain it was by the kitchen table this morning. Could the cop have moved it?
I retreat slowly from the room, as though the playpen might detonate. I call Jess’s number again, fit Jackson back in his carrier, and leave the house as fast as I can.
3
BEC
Sometime in the night, Jackson wakes me. I open my eyes and fiddle with the baby monitor, but his cries stalk the hallway. I don’t bother checking the time and instead throw the duvet back and sit up.
My thoughts ping around as they do each night, when I lie awake for hours and wait for Jackson to signal he’s hungry. Ironically, he’s only been waking a few times per night. Now, I travel the hallway toward his nursery. The absence of morning light is like wading through ink.
At his door, the cries grow more urgent.
“Hold on, little guy. Mama’s here.” I cross to the crib. I lower my arms in, but he’s not where he usually is. “Did you roll?” I scoop again, but my grip comes away bare. I rub my hands across the sheets and frantically scour every inch of the crib. “Jackson?” I traverse and skim again.
Nothing.
The cries intensify, but they aren’t coming from the crib. Now, they’re behind me. I whip around. “Jackson?” I rush out of his room and down the hall. The cry shifts again, as if bouncing freely through the house. I fumble for the baby monitor on my nightstand and knock over my water glass. It thuds against the carpet. Back in the hallway, I strain to hear exactly where he is.
Downstairs?
“Oh my God.” I ignore the logical part of my brain that knows a three-month-old can’t escape his crib, and I sprint downstairs anyway. My toe bumps into something. I crouch down and connect with a tiny nose, mouth, and chin. But it’s not flesh I feel—it’s plastic. A baby doll? I check to make sure. The doll cries harder, and I drop it and spin around in my foyer. “Jackson?” I call his name again, and mid-cry, he cuts off. The house grows deathly quiet, except for my chaotic breath.
A crack of lightning brings me out of it. I jolt awake, drenched, my heart a jackhammer. I lie in my bed, queasy with nerves. “It’s just a dream,” I reassure myself. “You’re okay.” I reach for the glass of water on my nightstand and suck down the last remaining drops. I collapse back in bed. Thunder rolls outside, then another flash of lightning.
The nightmares are becoming so real.
I snake a shaky hand over my face and wipe away the sweat. The events from yesterday drift into focus: the footsteps. The open door. The moved playpen. Last night, Jess worked hard to reassure me that my exhaustion is to blame, but I’m not so sure.
I gauge the empty space beside me and run a hand over the sheets. A sob catches in my throat. I squeeze my eyes shut until the outline of Chris’s face fires in my memory—the slightly crooked nose, broken twice from college rugby, the large amber eyes and impossibly thick lashes, the tiny cleft in his chin. I reach out as though I can still press a finger into the dimpled flesh. My hand fists