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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

“No, I’m fine. Thanks for coming over.” I hug her, wave good-bye, and head inside. I shut and lock the front door. “Is Mama paranoid or what?” I remove Jackson from his stroller. His body is sticky as I settle him on one hip. I peel off my T-shirt and invite cool air to flow in from the gap. “It sure is hot out there, huh? I’m ready for fall. Are you?” We walk to the kitchen, and I open the freezer and stick my head in and play peek-a-boo a few times. His hearty chuckle squeezes my heart until I think it might explode.

“Okay, let’s get you settled so Mama can make dinner.” I walk the few steps to deposit him in his Pack ’n Play by the kitchen table, except it’s not where I left it. I rotate, inch by inch. Chills stud the back of my neck. I stall in the kitchen, moving methodically to retrace my steps. I round the corner and shuffle toward the middle of the living room, until I bump into something: his playpen.

My nerves sizzle. I would never put the Pack ’n Play in the middle of the living room. Because of my sight, I place most furniture on the perimeter of every room, leaving a wide open space to pass through. I’m certain it was by the kitchen table this morning. Could the cop have moved it?

I retreat slowly from the room, as though the playpen might detonate. I call Jess’s number again, fit Jackson back in his carrier, and leave the house as fast as I can.

3

BEC

Sometime in the night, Jackson wakes me. I open my eyes and fiddle with the baby monitor, but his cries stalk the hallway. I don’t bother checking the time and instead throw the duvet back and sit up.

My thoughts ping around as they do each night, when I lie awake for hours and wait for Jackson to signal he’s hungry. Ironically, he’s only been waking a few times per night. Now, I travel the hallway toward his nursery. The absence of morning light is like wading through ink.

At his door, the cries grow more urgent.

“Hold on, little guy. Mama’s here.” I cross to the crib. I lower my arms in, but he’s not where he usually is. “Did you roll?” I scoop again, but my grip comes away bare. I rub my hands across the sheets and frantically scour every inch of the crib. “Jackson?” I traverse and skim again.

Nothing.