their cries blending as they’d wailed for each other. Didn’t her child carry that heartbreak too? Wasn’t there something visceral inside of him, a nameless longing that would only be made right by their reunion? Or did she carry that grief alone? For a moment she felt such crushing loneliness she didn’t think she could bear it. “I will not stop fighting for him,” she whispered. “I can’t.” I don’t know how.
“Josie,” he said, his voice throaty as he reached for her. She let him take her hands in his, but they sat limply in his grasp. He looked defeated, still torn. “Stay at my apartment again tonight or I can stay with you.”
She looked away from him, out the front window, feeling empty suddenly, drained of the intense joy she’d been feeling the last few days as she’d basked in the knowledge that she’d found her son, that she was getting him back. She sighed, shook her head, but squeezed Zach’s hands before letting go. “I need to go home. And . . . I need to be alone, Zach. I need that, just for a couple of days.”
His gaze shot to her then. “You can’t be alone. He’s out there.”
Her heart sped. In her short haze of happiness, the whirl of meetings, and information, and planning and dreaming, she’d almost convinced herself Charles Hartsman was gone for good. But she knew very well Reagan was still out there, still counting on the police to find her. Zach had been working around the clock following each flimsy lead they had. The police were currently searching every empty or abandoned house in the city of Cincinnati but hadn’t hit on anything yet.
“I have an alarm now,” she said. “I’ll be okay. Send officers if you have to, but I need to be by myself.” He looked at her knowingly. She didn’t mean by herself. She’d have officers guard her because her safety was still at risk. What she meant was she needed to be without him.
For now. Just for now.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Josie stood back, checking that the picture she’d just hung was straight, adjusting it slightly and then standing back again. It looked so strange, the sight of the painting of a flower field where before her board had hung, littered with lists and numbers, and signifying the hope she’d held in her heart for eight long years. The dream that had finally come to fruition. Her son had been found. He was coming to live with her. That board was a relic of the past. She no longer needed it.
She turned, leaving her room and walking to the bedroom next door, the one she’d been working on for two days to set up for Caleb . . . Reed. She had to start thinking of him as Reed.
She’d called Rain and invited her over for a visit, desperate to keep busy, distracted. There was still no news on Reagan, and her heart was breaking. What had started out as a somewhat awkward visit over coffee and cake had quickly and naturally turned into a gab fest—and a bit of a cry fest—and Josie had given her the rundown about what was going on in her life, unbelievable as it was. Rain had seen the story on the news, of course, and though she was shocked, she was also incredibly supportive. Josie was so glad she’d reached out, confided in her, made a new friend. Rain had offered to help with the room, and as they’d worked, she’d told Josie the details of her own life, her recent divorce, how her husband had been physically abusive toward her, how she’d packed up her car, driven to her mother’s, and never looked back. How she, too, was starting over in Oxford.
Rain was the first friend Josie had made in eight long years, and she felt a tension loosen inside her with the newly forged bond. The reminder of how important women are to each other.
Together, they’d removed the more feminine décor items Josie had had in the room . . . the floral paintings, the antique, ceramic pitcher and basin that had been on the dresser. They’d painted the walls a blue gray and replaced the pale pink and green quilt that had covered the bed with one Josie had found in the attic done in blues and whites. It was perfect. Reed had plenty of space to add his own special items.