“You know, it’s crazy to me that just a few days ago, I was worried about being followed, and now?” I shrug. “Now, I feel numb. I’m not afraid of anything.”

I ponder all of the recent events. How were they only a few days ago? Were they some weird premonition or sixth sense? Then I consider a harder question: didn’t the incidents stop once Jackson was taken? I ignore that pinprick of fear that tells me I might not be thinking clearly and keep moving forward.

“I don’t think that’s unusual, given your circumstances.”

I balk at the word circumstances. My whole adult life seems to be built on circumstances. The truth is I am exhausted by it all—tired to the depth of my bones. But I will not stop or settle until Jackson is in my arms.

“So Rose Watson.”

Jake’s change of topic throws me, but I listen. “What about her?”

“No father in the picture.”

“Was Oliver awarded to the state?”

“No. She was on Medicaid and alluded to the fact that she wanted to give up the baby while she was pregnant. She had a meeting with the state, and DCFS was notified. Apparently she changed her mind by the time she checked out of the hospital.”

“Okay.” Then what?

We stop in front of my door. “Then she disappeared. Became a ghost. No sign of her. No sign of the baby.”

My hand stiffens around my cane. “What does that mean?”

“It means that when Rose Watson died in Mexico two months ago, there was no sign of a baby. No one even knew she had a baby.”

I find the house key. “Did she give the baby to a relative?”

“She has no living relatives.”

My brow furrows. “How could she not have any living relatives?”

“Some people get the shit end of the stick, Bec.”

I glare at him and forcefully twist the key. “No shit.” I enter the house again.

“DCFS threw out the case, because they assumed she was raising him,” he continues. “They didn’t know she was dead.”

“Have they done any digging into who her relatives were? Maybe some distant cousin or something?” I remove my shoes and rest my cane on the foyer table.

“Working on it now. Names will be released after they get clearance.”

“Why do they need clearance?” I place my hands on my hips. I want to know and yet I don’t want to know. What if one of her relatives is someone I know, or someone I don’t? Which would be worse?

His cell phone chirps before he can answer. I almost beg him not to answer, but I know that’s never an option when you’re a cop. “Donovan.” He waits a beat, then two. “Ten-four.”

“Don’t even say it.”

“Sorry. Homicide on the South Side.” He steps toward the door.

“When will we know anything?”

“Soon.”