Until I Find You by Rea Frey
English | 2020| Thriller | ePUB | 4.8 MB
Rea Frey is the celebrated author of Not Her Daughter, Because You’re Mine, and Until I Find You. She also is the founder and CEO of Writeway, where aspiring writers become published authors. To learn more, please visit reafrey.com or writewayco.com.
In Until I Find You, celebrated author Rea Frey brings you her most explosive, emotional, taut domestic drama yet about the powerful bond between mothers and children…and how far one woman will go to bring her son home.
2 floors. 55 steps to go up. 40 more to the crib.
Since Rebecca Gray was diagnosed with a degenerative eye disease, everything in her life consists of numbers. Each day her world grows a little darker and each step becomes a little more dangerous.
Following days of feeling like someone’s watching her, Bec awakes at home to the cries of her son in his nursery. When it’s clear he’s not going to settle, Bec goes to check on him.
She reaches in. Picks him up.
But he’s not her son.
And no one believes her.
One woman’s desperate search for her son . . .
In a world where seeing is believing, Bec must rely on her own conviction and a mother’s instinct to uncover the truth about what happened to her baby and bring him home for good.
I lurch off the bench and walk a few paces, churning my arms toward my chest to produce air. I gasp, tell myself to breathe, tell myself to do something.
When I think I’m going to faint, I exhale completely, then sip in a shallow breath. I veer toward a tree, fingers grasping, and reach its chalky bark. In, out. In, out. Breathe, Rebecca. Breathe.
Concerned whispers crescendo around me while I remember how to breathe. I mentally force my limbs to relax, soften my jaw, and count to ten. After a few toxic moments, I retrace my steps back to the bench.
I just left my baby alone.
Jackson’s right foot twitches and jingles from the stroller; he’s blissfully unaware that his mother just had a panic attack. I calm myself, but my heart continues to knock around my chest like a pinball. I open a bottle of water and lift it to my lips with trembling hands. I exhale and massage my chest. The footsteps. The panic attack. These recurring fears …
“Hey, lady. Fancy meeting you here.” Jess leans down and delivers a kiss to my cheek. Her scent—sweet, like honey crisp apples—does little to dissuade my terrified mood.
“Hi. Sit, sit.” I rearrange my voice to neutral and move the diaper bag to make room.
Jess positions her stroller beside mine. Beth sits next to her, her three-month-old baby, Trevor, always in a ring sling or strapped to her chest.
“How’s the morning?” Beth asks.
I tell them both about the footsteps and the woman who returned the bells, but conveniently leave out the part about the panic attack.
Beth leans closer. “Scary. Who do you think was following you?”
“I’m not sure,” I say.
“You should have called,” Jess says. “I’m always happy to walk with you.”
“That’s not exactly on your way.”
“Oh, please. I could use the extra exercise.”
I roll my eyes at her disparaging comment, because Beth and I both know she loves her curves.
“Anyway, it’s sleep deprivation,” Jess continues. “Makes you hallucinate. I remember when Baxter was Jackson’s age and waking up every two hours, I literally thought I was going to lose my mind. I would put things in odd places. I was even convinced Rob was cheating.”
I laugh. “Rob would never cheat on you.”
“Exactly my point.” She turns to me. “Have you thought about hiring a nanny?”
“Yeah,” Beth adds. “Especially with everything you’ve been through.”