“Sure.” I ask Siri to open VoiceOver and bring up contacts. “It’s all yours.” I swallow. “What should I do?”

“Let me do my job. Without a missing child report, proper police procedure, or the footprint, we’re going to have to approach this a bit off the books.”

“Okay.” I hate feeling like a victim. I want to ask him to knock on every door, to be as riled up about all of this as I am, but without any evidence, all I have to rely on is protocol. I don’t dare ask him if he believes me. While I know he’s giving me the benefit of the doubt, I don’t think I could handle anything other than yes.

“I’m just going to do a little digging. Why don’t you go upstairs and take a cold shower?”

“I don’t want to take a shower.”

“It will clear your head, shock your system. Go. I’ll let you know if the baby wakes up.”

I stare stubbornly in his direction, suddenly taken back eleven years. What else am I going to do? Pace the kitchen until he’s done? “Fine.”

“It’s going to be okay, Bec. I promise.”

I shrug off his words, walk upstairs to the bedroom, and click the door shut. I crank the water to cold and do as I’m told. I undress and enter the icy spray. Instead of standing under a hot shower and crying, I gasp for breath and think of nothing else but staying put. After a full minute, my skin adjusts and I focus on breathing in and out.

I stay until I can’t take the cold, then quickly dry off, redress, and wrap my hair in a towel. Jake is in the kitchen. He pours another cup of coffee.

“Better?” he asks.

No. “Did you find what you need?”

“Kind of.” He swallows. “I hope you don’t mind, but I logged onto your computer and saw the open browser.” He drums his fingers on the table. “What’s all this stuff about the changeling?” His tone is light, but concern smarts underneath.

I shrug. “I went to Google ‘baby swaps’ and that came up.” I keep my voice steady, my eyes as focused as possible. “I just wanted to see what it was about.”

He doesn’t respond and I wonder if I should keep explaining. I wish I could see his face to tell what he’s thinking. I unravel the towel from my damp hair and busy my hands with soaking up the excess moisture.

“Do you have any enemies? Anyone in Chris’s life who wants to get back at him?”

I bristle at his question. Chris didn’t have enemies. And I don’t, as far as I know. I shake my head. “Everyone loved Chris.”

He hesitates. “No past lovers or affairs that you’re aware of?”