Until I Find You - Rea Frey Page 0,92

do we know?”

“DCFS is on their way down. They’re going to know more about this boy than we do. We’re issuing the Amber Alert immediately for Jackson.”

“You are?” A relieved hand flutters to my chest.

“Yes, immediately.” He hesitates. “I’m sorry we didn’t issue it earlier, Rebecca, but I’m following my chief’s orders.”

I know all about the chief’s orders. He wants to present Elmhurst as a peaceful place—which it always has been. And now there’s been nothing but chaos since my move back. We tidy up a few loose ends, and then the questions start. They’re subtle at first—it must be hard raising a baby all by myself. How do I manage? How do I know when Jackson is sick? And that’s when it hits me: Officer Toby is fishing.

“What are you getting at exactly?” I string his questions together in my head and form my own hypothesis. “Do you think I’ve harmed my baby and am trying to cover it up somehow?” I look between the two of them, turning their faces into angry black holes in my mind. “Why in the world would I go to all of this trouble? I’ve been trying to focus on Jackson, not this boy.”

“I’m just asking, Mrs. Gray—Rebecca. Standard question.”

I roll my eyes. “Right, right. Everything’s protocol. Of course.” Stillness stuffs the room until we’re all ready to burst.

“Knock, knock.”

Officer Toby shuffles to the door and excuses himself.

“DCFS?” I ask Jake.

“Most likely. Stay here.”

I quiet Oliver who has just kicked it into a high enough gear that I can’t overhear what’s going on outside. “It’s okay, little one.” My voice catches. Are they going to take him right this second? I kiss the top of his head and sing, which quiets him. Where will they take him? Why can’t he just stay with me until they locate his parents?

Worst-case scenarios shuffle through my mind, but I bury them. This isn’t about Oliver—as much as I treasure him—it’s about Jackson. What feels like an eternity later, Officer Toby, Jake, and a woman enter the room.

“Rebecca, this is Maya from DCFS.”

I nod in her direction. “Are you going to ask me questions too?”

“Not my jurisdiction,” she says.

I swallow. “Are you here to take Oliver?”

She’s quiet.

“Verbal, please,” Jake says.

“Oh, sorry. Yes, I am here to take Oliver.”

“Where are you taking him?” Then I hold up my hand. “Actually, don’t tell me. I can’t think about it.” I swallow and shush the baby. “Where are his parents?”

Jake slaps what sounds like a file against the desk. “Well that’s the damnedest thing, Bec.”

“What?” My heart lurches.

“We recovered the mother’s name.”

“And?” I ask. I brace myself for what he could possibly tell me. “Who is it?”

“Her name is Rose Watson. And she’s dead.”

41

CRYSTAL

Crystal pulls over to the side of the road, then turns and climbs into the back seat with Savi, who gives a surprised cry.

Savi looks to the third row behind them, shrouded in darkness, and up toward the now empty driver’s seat. “What are you doing?”

“Talking.” She takes Savi’s hands, twists her body until she’s facing her daughter, and looks into her eyes. “I want you to talk to me.”

Savi pulls her hands away and folds her arms against her chest. “About what?”

“About Dad.” She gestures toward the back seat. “About everything.”

Savi’s chin trembles only for a moment. “We don’t ever talk about that.”

Crystal closes her eyes. She’s made so many mistakes. Sure, she’s been in therapy, but what about Savi? After Dr. Gibbons saw her a few times, Savi begged not to go back and she didn’t want to push her. But she should have. There was a window for grief—a window to deal with unhealthy thoughts formed about relationships, especially for kids. Why hadn’t she fought harder these last few months to make sure she was getting the emotional support she really needed?

Savi uncrosses her arms and picks at a loose thread on the seam of her dress.

“That’s my fault,” Crystal says. “I want to talk about that. I want to know what you’re going through, how you’re feeling. Do you talk to anybody?”

Everything starts crashing into Crystal. Savi doesn’t have a best friend here—or any friends, really. She turns to her cello in times of crisis, or to magic, or to Pam. Pam, who just disappeared in that crowd like a puff of smoke.

As if in confirmation, she shrugs. “I talk to Pam sometimes. But she doesn’t know what it’s like. And Ms. Rebecca. She makes me feel better.”

Her heart wrenches. “It’s important to