I know he’s bullshitting me. Jake has taught me the dire statistics of child kidnappings. If a kid isn’t found in the first few hours, then he’s not coming back. I ask Siri the time. Twelve hours missing.

What if I never see my son again?

I clear the defeatist thought from my brain—it will do nothing to help—and collapse over the counter, bracing myself on my elbows. “What do we need to do? Get DNA or something?”

“DNA is tricky. Labs take forever. And it’s gotta be an exceptional case. They don’t do it in some of the highest-profile cases.”

“You’re kidding.”

He adjusts on the stool, and the leather cracks over his sturdy body. “Wish I were. Chicago’s a big city, lots of crime. They can’t accommodate all cases, especially ones without firm evidence.”

“What evidence do we need?”

“Bec, even with evidence, a DNA test can take months.”

“Months?” This can’t take months. Jackson has hours at best. “But we’re in Elmhurst. This isn’t Chicago. There’s hardly any crime here.”

“While that’s true, technically this isn’t my jurisdiction. And as I said, the chief’s tough. I’m going to have to call in some favors if you want me to look into this.”

“Can we alert the neighborhood at least?”

“Look, you’re asking all the right questions. We’ll get there. You just have to let me do this part first, okay?” His hand finds mine and briefly squeezes.

In the nursery, the baby screams.

“That child is not my son. Doesn’t even sound like him,” I say. “What proof do I need beyond that?” I rummage in the fridge again, but I’m out of pumped milk. “Shit.” I close the fridge and walk upstairs to the nursery. The walk stretches before me—interminable stairs, endless hallways, a nursery with another baby instead of my own.

I take him out of the vibrating chair, my breasts aching for relief. He settles against me and hungrily tracks the smell of my milk. I hesitate and then lower into my rocking chair, replaying such precious time spent here with Jackson—my favorite moments.

“Who are you?” I whisper. I rock and attempt to get him settled, but he’s hungry. Finally, I lift my shirt to offer him a hard, engorged breast. He fusses but doesn’t latch. I brush the nipple back and forth over his lips, and my whole body jerks as he finally connects. Even his latch is different, sloppy and unpracticed. The letdown comes quick. A gush of milk explodes into his mouth and with it, physical relief tangled with anguish for my missing son. I close my eyes and pinch off the thoughts. My only focus needs to be on finding him, not mourning him.