He turns and unlocks the door. All of the earlier adrenaline disappears as I haul myself up the steps and inside. I unlatch the baby and turn him toward Jake, also pulling a few photos of Jackson from my phone for comparison. I don’t take many photos, but I try and document as much as I can so he can see them someday.

He studies the photos and then the baby. “Bec, it’s hard to tell. We’ll have to get others to verify that this isn’t Jackson. We’ll file a report at the station. But, I’m just going to warn you. This isn’t a regular situation. It will be up to the chief to see how they handle this, and from what I know, he’s conservative. Doesn’t pull the trigger unless warranted.”

I pull the baby back into my arms. “What does that mean?”

“It means he’s not going to jump to issue an Amber Alert unless he has definitive proof.”

“Bullshit.” Anger tangles with my fears. Rather than argue, I excuse myself to put the baby back in Jackson’s vibrating swing in the nursery. Downstairs, Jake is filling the coffeepot. “Coffee?”

I shrug. I can’t think about coffee. I can’t think about anything other than my child.

He works silently in the kitchen, not making any comments about the house or how many times he’s been here for dinner with my mother or fixed things around the house after Dad died. Once the coffee is brewing, he extracts a small notepad, the pages crisp as he flips them. “I know you filled me in on the phone, but tell me again.”

I walk him through exactly what happened from the time I got up to the time I realized Jackson was missing.

He scribbles notes. The coffee gurgles its last drops into the pot. The air conditioner kicks on. Fear screams inside my skull.

He pauses writing. “I ran a check on the way,” he says. “No missing child reports for the area.”

“What?” My hand freezes in midair as I reach for a mug.

“It’s not unusual.”

“What’s not unusual?”

“Babies don’t have identification, Bec. They can be tough to identify.”

“If some other mother accidentally took Jackson home, she’d know. Trust me.”

“I hear you. But there’s a protocol for these things. You know that.”

My jaw twitches, and I grind my teeth so hard, I fear they might crack. “No, I don’t know that. I don’t know anything other than the fact that I’ve been having this … feeling like I’m being followed and now my son is missing.”

“I get that. But if you walk into any station and explain what happened without evidence, then you’ll be laughed out of there. Or worse.”

“That’s why I called you.”

“I know. We have time.”