Until I Find You - Rea Frey Page 0,49

bed. I must have fallen asleep sometime early this morning. Oh God, the baby. I launch out of bed, rummage for my robe, and hurry down the hall to the nursery. I tiptoe just in case he’s still sleeping, but the crib is empty. Movement echoes from the kitchen.

“Jake?” I take the stairs and round the corner. “Where’s the baby?”

“Morning. It’s okay. He’s right here.”

I check the baby, who is in Jackson’s playpen. Last night sears into focus. I’ve never been so unglued—not even after Chris died—but Jake was there every second. I shake away that version of Rebecca, the unglued woman who’s lost everything. Today, there will need to be a new version in her place: strong Rebecca. Resilient Rebecca. A mother who will do virtually anything to find her son. “What time is it?” The same question I asked on our walk home from the station.

“It’s only seven. No new reports on my end. Here.” He thrusts a cup of coffee in my hand. “Drink up.” The cup heats my palms. I take a tentative sip, a heavy breath. It’s been almost twenty hours since I’ve fed Jackson—despite the reluctant feeding yesterday, my breasts hang like heavy boulders on my chest. I set the coffee on the counter, grab the pump, and excuse myself to the bathroom.

As I sit and ponder what might happen today, my body involuntarily responds to the pump and fills each freezer bag almost to bursting. I know it will be too early for the mothers to be at the park, but I am desperate to get there. Someone has to know something or have seen something. I think about Beth and Crystal. Have they already heard through the grapevine what’s happened?

I label the bags, give the baby a bottle, and get dressed. I steel myself for the day—and inevitable judgment—ahead. Jake helps change the baby, packs extra bottles, and lowers him into the stroller.

“Are you okay with work?” I ask.

“For now.” He opens the front door and maneuvers the stroller to the driveway.

As we head toward the park, I mourn the circumstances. This is a scenario I’d often envisioned in my twenties with Jake: sans missing baby, dead husband and mother, and blindness. I text Jess to let her know we’re headed to Wilder. I wanted to put out a group post on the Elmhurst Moms Facebook page last night, but Jake advised against it. “In case there is someone behind this, we need to be discreet. Don’t announce yourself.”

The day is perfectly warm without an ounce of humidity. The baby fusses from the stroller, and the longing for Jackson takes me off guard. Jake steadies me with his arm. “You okay?”

“I can physically feel him out there somewhere.”

“Just stay focused,” he says.

We take a left into the park. It’s quiet, and I sag with disappointment. “What now?” I ask.

“Now we wait.” We sit on the park bench. I take myself back to yesterday morning: the path I walked, how I stopped behind this bench, how my fingers trailed over the edges of each stroller so I knew exactly where Jackson’s was. How Jess slid Baxter’s stroller to the right so she could make room for him. How I sat in front of my baby and arrogantly thought the bells would alert me if something was wrong. I was so engrossed in conversation—in feeling normal, in blending in, in making friends—that I didn’t pay attention. What if it happened while we were all just sitting there? What if the swap happened before I fainted, not after? As I calculate possibilities, a few women finally straggle in. Sensing the shift, Jake leans in.

“Let me do the talking, okay?”

I nod and squeeze the stroller handle tighter.

“Excuse me, ladies? I’m Detective Jake Donovan.” Jake’s voice is steady as he approaches the moms. “My friend Rebecca Gray was here yesterday with her baby, Jackson.” I imagine him turning to gesture toward the bench.

“Oh yeah, you fainted! Are you okay?” A woman’s voice I barely recognize—Ramona?—speaks up, and then another woman joins in. I offer up a smile, but it’s fake. This whole thing is a lie—sitting here with another baby in my son’s stroller, depending on my ex-boyfriend to get to the bottom of this when I’m his mother. This is my job, not Jake’s.

“So you were both here yesterday?” Jake continues. “Anyone else?” He cases both benches and gathers the women to talk, take statements, and ask questions. I avoid trailing him like a huntress and