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Back Until I Find You Save as PDF
Chapters (60)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. Epigraph
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. 50
  55. EPILOGUE
  56. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  57. DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
  58. Also by Rea Frey
  59. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  60. Newsletter Sign-up

Will this be another dead end, or are things finally turning in my favor? In my hurry, I miss a crack in the sidewalk, and pitch forward. The stroller thuds behind me, and the baby gives a small laugh. I stop and turn. So far, I’ve only heard his cry or tiny sighs. His voice is sweet, soft, and knifes the mangled flesh of my heart. “Was that funny?” I run a finger over his cheek and miss my son with such ferocity, I feel sick.

You will find him, I remind myself.

By the time I arrive home, I’m breathless. I situate the baby in the nursery and wait for Jake on the front porch.

A few minutes later, his SUV powers into the driveway. “Rebecca.” My name again. I hold my breath as he crosses the front walk. His hulk blocks the sun and dims the blurry landscape. I wait for the news—good or bad, pointless or useful—when the baby screams from inside. I listen to see if he’ll quiet, but he doesn’t.

“Hold that thought,” I say. I take the stairs two at a time, almost dizzy from needing to know what he’s found out. In the nursery, the baby is wet. I change his diaper, kiss his cheek, and lower him into the crib. I keep the door cracked and hurry back to the landing.

I don’t even realize I’ve missed the top step until my foot closes in on air and I’m pitching forward into space.

35

BEC

Everything stops. Time, breath, grief. All of it evaporates when I step down onto nothing. I pull myself back so severely, my neck makes a sickening pop. My spine cracks against the top step. My body liquefies and slides down the rest of the stairs. I give a sharp cry as I skid toward the landing.

I lie there, staring up at the ceiling, just as I’d stared up into the bright blue sky on Thursday. No sense of time, thought, or direction. Just me, flat on my back, in pain. “Jake.” My voice is weak, as if I’ve been strangled. I try to sit up, but can’t. “Jake!”

The front door opens. “Bec.” Jake sprints to the base of the staircase. His hands dance delicately over my bones. “Can you move?”

Wicked fingers of pain stab my spine. “My back.”

“What the hell happened?”

“Gravity.” I wince.