baby stiffens, but I can’t stop. I take off down the sidewalk, wanting to scream his name and not stop until he’s found.
I hurry home, unlock the door, and place the baby in Jackson’s swing. I crank the mobile, turn the chair to vibrate, and hope to God he will fall asleep.
A text comes through and I read it. Worried about you. Are you okay? Let me know if I can do anything.
I wish Jess believed me, but a mother knows her child. A mother always knows.
I decide not to text her back. There is only one person in this world who can help me—one person who might believe me and help find Jackson. I dial the number from memory and wait.
Jake answers before the second ring.
16
BEC
“What’s wrong?”
I know a homicide detective is probably used to calls at all hours of the night, but I’m still uncertain of what he might think—his ex-girlfriend whom he just saw now thinks her child is missing? Even I’d have a hard time believing that. I tell him what happened and about my visit to the station. He collects all the basic information—time, where I was, when I realized Jackson was gone—but background movement makes his questions terse and punchy. I concentrate on the sounds: arms being stuffed into stiff leather. Keys scooped from a table. Shoes tugged on, laced, double knotted.
“Stay there.”
He’s coming.
I hang up and feel a modicum better. Now what? I replay every missing child’s case I’ve ever heard about, stories a dime a dozen in a city as big as Chicago. But not in Elmhurst. This isn’t just a simple missing child case though.
This is a swap.
I walk to my computer, open a web browser, ask for information on baby swaps, and listen. Moments later, I am immersed in folklore. Instead of real stories about swapped children, I quickly learn that a changeling is believed to be a fairy child left in place of a human child. The main reason for the swap is because the infant is sickly, has developmental disabilities, or is afflicted with unexplained diseases.
On cue, the baby starts up, coughing and crying in tandem. Did someone switch my baby because something is wrong with this one?
Upstairs, I run my hand across his cheeks: warm but not hot. Only his chortled snores stutter through the nursery. I pick him up and strap him in the carrier. Worst-case scenarios about Jackson slice through my mind. I grip the sides of my head and bite back a scream.
I replay Jake’s request—stay there—but I’m already defying it. Downstairs, I pull on my shoes again, grab my keys and cane. The earlier fears of being followed in broad daylight are child’s play compared to walking alone late at night. But I have no choice.
The baby quiets with movement. He jostles against my chest, arms and legs bouncing from my brisk pace. Crickets and belchy frogs display their nightly calls, a few sprinklers hissing from obsessive neighbors’ desires for pristine lawns.
I scrape the cane across the sidewalk. I can’t get too lost in thought or I could trip. I grip the baby and think about turning around. I can’t put us both in danger in order to what? Go sit on the park bench and cry?
But there could be a clue or some spark of memory that helps me find Jackson. I force my legs to keep moving, taking a left and then another left. My heart beats in my ears, and I feel the baby’s forehead again. I remind myself to take his temperature when we get back. I stop near the entrance to the park, all of the nighttime nature free to vocalize. The trees sway above me, their leaves already crisping from the insane August heat. I take a deep breath and head toward the playground. I sweep my cane along the earth like those people who look for buried treasure at the beach.
A few feet ahead, it bumps into something. I crouch down to get it, knees popping, and retrieve a shoe. I toss it to the side and wipe my hands on my pants. The turf is buoyant. I stop at the edge of the bench I sat on earlier today, hoping a bum isn’t sleeping or waiting to attack.
“Hello?” I whisper. I tap my cane on the surface and confirm it’s clear. Instead of sitting, I walk around to the other side. My fingers curl around the bench’s back. I inch forward and replay the scene