I drum my fingers on the table, the same movement I avoided at the police station just an hour before. “It’s got to be somewhere close, right? What about Chicago?”

He types it in. “Just more churches and community centers. I’ll call Pat.” While he calls Pat, his go-to research guy, I obsessively check my phone again. Another text from Crystal. I hesitate. I want to talk to her and tell her what’s going on, but I don’t want to burden her. I send her a quick I’m okay, call you later text and wait for Jake to get off the phone.

As I stand in my kitchen, listening to his clipped conversation, I’m transported back to another time and place. Jake would often come to Elmhurst after my dad died. My mother was a capable woman, but she struggled with certain chores due to her heart condition.

Jake would wordlessly tackle her to-do list while Mom and I made dinner to reward him. We’d eat and then sit out on the patio to drink whiskey and talk. Sometimes we’d crash in my old room, making love quietly so as not to wake my mother. Back then, I couldn’t imagine ever loving another man. Even now, I can’t believe it was something as insignificant as distance that tore us apart.

How did we end up here?

“Okay, he’s on it.” Jake brings me back to the present.

I nod. “So what now?”

“Now we wait.” He exhales. “Except that’s not going to work for you, is it?” His hands find my shoulders and squeeze.

I shake my head. “If I wanted to wait, I would have done what Toby wanted.”

“Roger that.”

Instead of stepping away, I move into his arms. His hands hover, then slide lower and tighten on my lower back. I rest my head against his chest. His heart thumps beneath my ear and gains momentum. My fingers tighten instinctively and glide up and down his studded spine. My breath deepens. I tilt my face toward his.

“Rebecca.” His voice grows husky.

In his arms, I want him to erase it all. My past. Chris. Jackson’s disappearance. My mother. The truth. I just want to feel something other than this pain that threatens to destroy me at every turn. His fingers wander up my hips and ribs and hesitate on the outer curves of my breasts. My body goes limp as his fingers dance on my neck, then up to my jawline. My body pulses so hard it hurts.

“Please.” The word is a demand. I close my eyes. His mouth moves closer. The memory of us resurfaces and grips me around the throat. I can’t breathe, but I lean in.

His phone slices through our moment. He recedes and the mood shifts. The passion instantly drains from my body.