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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

“I’m sorry. I think I’m in the wrong place.” I backtrack with my cane, push through the door, and press my back against the cool brick wall outside the station. If I tell them my suspicions, they’ll either give my story the benefit of the doubt because I’m blind—issuing me a report and ID number—or they’ll think I’m 10-96.

10-96. Crazy. Nuts. A loose cannon. The common cop lingo resurfaces, and I push off the wall. Of course. Jake. Why didn’t I think to call him first? The baby coughs, and I pat his back and hunt for fever with my cool hand. Where is Jackson?

At the thought of my son out there somewhere, a cry hurries up my throat and spills into the night. The baby stiffens, but I can’t stop. I take off down the sidewalk, wanting to scream his name and not stop until he’s found.

I hurry home, unlock the door, and place the baby in Jackson’s swing. I crank the mobile, turn the chair to vibrate, and hope to God he will fall asleep.

A text comes through and I read it. Worried about you. Are you okay? Let me know if I can do anything.

I wish Jess believed me, but a mother knows her child. A mother always knows.

I decide not to text her back. There is only one person in this world who can help me—one person who might believe me and help find Jackson. I dial the number from memory and wait.

Jake answers before the second ring.

16

BEC

“What’s wrong?”

I know a homicide detective is probably used to calls at all hours of the night, but I’m still uncertain of what he might think—his ex-girlfriend whom he just saw now thinks her child is missing? Even I’d have a hard time believing that. I tell him what happened and about my visit to the station. He collects all the basic information—time, where I was, when I realized Jackson was gone—but background movement makes his questions terse and punchy. I concentrate on the sounds: arms being stuffed into stiff leather. Keys scooped from a table. Shoes tugged on, laced, double knotted.

“Stay there.”

He’s coming.

I hang up and feel a modicum better. Now what? I replay every missing child’s case I’ve ever heard about, stories a dime a dozen in a city as big as Chicago. But not in Elmhurst. This isn’t just a simple missing child case though.

This is a swap.