“Will you tell me the moment you hear?”

“I’ll tell you when we have Jackson back, how’s that?”

Rage erupts through my chest. “Jake Donovan, if you know who it might be, tell me right now.”

“No.” He says it simply, and for the first time in my life, I want to slap him. “If I tell you anything, you will take matters into your own hands, which could compromise the entire case. I’m not telling you anything until you have your son back in your arms. Then we’ll talk.”

I move a step closer. “Do you know where Jackson is?”

“No, but we’re working on it. Hang on just a little longer, okay?” He opens the door and steps through. “Stay here until you hear from me or Toby. Promise me.”

“You taught me not to make promises I can’t keep, remember?” I firmly shut the door. A moment later, his engine revs and he peels out of the drive.

Inside my house, the silence consumes me. I walk through each room—the room where my father taught me piano, the room my mother spanked me in after I told her I hated her, the room where I used to make forts and eat popcorn. Now, they are different rooms: rooms where I rocked my son, rooms where I made my mother’s funeral arrangements, rooms where the entire neighborhood came to pay their respects.

Once again, I replay the past week. The knife in the refrigerator. The footsteps. The bells. Was it all just imagined? I search my brain for answers it can’t give and play each and every event on a loop. I call Crystal but her phone is turned off. I call Jess but it goes straight to voice mail too. I realize it’s late—too late. I toss my phone in the dish by the door and pace my house until I can’t take the silence. One hour bleeds into the next.

When my feet grow tired, I sit at my dining room table and repeatedly ask Siri what time it is. A few times, I swear I hear a baby crying from upstairs. Or the jingling of bells. Phantom sounds, like when people get limbs blown off and still experience the agony of that missing limb.

Jackson is my missing limb. And Oliver. Oliver Watson.

When the sun rises, I shower, make a fresh pot of coffee, and head out. The only person who might be willing to help is Crystal. I want to do some digging on Rose Watson. She can’t be that much of a ghost.

I find Crystal’s address and calculate the route: seven minutes. I put in my earbuds to hear the directions, the lovely morning sounds of an ending summer muffled instantly.

At her door, I lift my fist to knock.

I’m finding my boy today.

No matter what.

44

BEC