How do I know that for certain? I’ve not held Trevor, and I’ve never scanned him the way I have Jackson, but I’m almost certain it’s not him from his cry alone. But in this situation, can I really be sure of who’s in that crib?

“When’s the last time you saw her?”

I change positions, and my back screams. “I just saw her at the parade.”

“Was Trevor with her?”

I glance up, suddenly terrified. “No, he wasn’t with her. Jess even commented on it. Beth said he was at home. But she practices attachment parenting. He’s always with her.” I wonder if that’s why this baby loves to be held so close too? “Oh my God.” My body goes limp. Does Beth have Jackson? As irrational as it is, the thought gives me some sort of strange comfort. Beth would never hurt Jackson … would she? “What do we do?”

“I’m going to talk to her. See if Trevor is there. I’ve got the photo of Jackson, so I can compare.”

“Let me come.” My legs still tremble from the fall. “Please.”

“Bec.” Jake sighs. “Stay here and rest. I’ll call you.”

I reluctantly nod. Once he’s sure I’m placated and comfortable, he’s gone. I sink farther into the couch cushions and replay every conversation I’ve ever had with Beth, deconstructing our relationship piece by piece. Our babies are just weeks apart. She constantly comments what a good baby Jackson is and how lucky I am. Why haven’t I held Trevor? Plus, she bought a onesie from the store. The same onesie the baby upstairs came home in. Doesn’t that prove something?

Or everything.

I grab my phone and text Jess and Crystal to come over. I say those four little words into the quiet house, as my voice translates it to a group text.

I need your help.

I dissect what I know about Beth. She’s married to a wealthy surgeon. She belongs to several clubs: tennis club, country club, boat club. But since Trevor, she’s been holed up in her house or out with a few friends and that’s it. Why was she suddenly alone at the parade?

The timing is too uncanny. Every part of me wants to chase after Jake and break Beth’s door down to deliver my own line of questioning. But I know I have to wait. After I work myself into a mental frenzy and ice my back until it’s completely numb, the doorbell rings and interrupts my train of thought.

“Bec?” It’s Jess. “What’s going on? Are you okay?” She closes the door behind her. “Why are you walking like you’re ninety?”

“I fell down the stairs.”

“Oh my God, what? Are you okay?”