Until I Find You, dynamic, domestic suspense by Rea Frey—the latest stop on her Partners In Crime Book Tour!
Review + Excerpt + Book & Author Info + Rafflecopter Giveaway
Until I Find You
Soon, Rebecca Gray won’t be able to see. Diagnosed in her twenties with a degenerative eye disease, each day her world grows a little darker.
She’s moved to the suburbs to raise her son, Jackson. In the wake of her husband’s death, it should be a quieter, easier way of life. It won’t be.
The Moment That Changes Everything
When Bec awakes after fainting in the park, she makes promises to start taking better care of herself. When her son begins to cry, she approaches the crib. Reaches in. Picks him up. But he’s not her son.
There’s nothing Bec won’t do to find Jackson. But she’s a blind woman in a world where seeing is believing.
The police think she’s confused. Her friends don’t see any differences. Relying on the conviction of her instinct and the power of a mother’s love, Bec must push the limits of her world to uncover what happened to her baby boy…and bring him home for good.
To purchase Until I Find You, click on any of the following links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | IndieBound | Goodreads
Genre: Domestic Suspense
Published by: St. Martin’s Press
Publication Date: August 11th 2020
Number of Pages: 320
ISBN: 1250241588 (ISBN13: 9781250241580)
Series: Until I Find You is not a part of a series.
My thoughts on Until I Find You
Domestic suspense is hot because it’s so delicious to read and Rea Frey’s latest novel does not disappoint.
Until I Find You is filled with tension, follows an engaging and empathetic protagonist, and keeps readers just enough off kilter to wonder . . . is this a reliable narrator?
The story starts out with recent widow and mother of a three-month-old son, the aptly named Rebecca Gray, slowly going blind. Understandably stressed, and trying to navigate a world that’s growing darker by the day, she’s doing the best she can.
Unfortunately, it’s not good enough. Putting all her energy into caring for her infant son, she forgets to care for herself. Her body finally rebels, and she faints at a nearby park.
After regaining consciousness, she does what any loving mother would do, she reaches for her son. But well-meaning friends circle around, help her home, get her to bed. She allows them to see to her son, until she rests, recovers, and they leave her alone.
She goes to her son’s crib, and finds a changeling instead.
“There’s a baby in this room: a baby who feels like Jackson, who looks like Jackson, who could probably pass for Jackson if someone wasn’t paying close enough attention. But I am.”
The realization throws Rebecca into a nightmare. She’s as sure as a sighted person this child is not her son, but no one believes her. How can she convince the police, or even her closest friends, that seeing isn’t the only way to believe? The smell, the sound, the touch of this baby is different.
Now she just has to prove it.
Readers are taken on a thrill ride to a surprising conclusion as they discover all the obstacles Frey throws in Rebecca’s path.
We feel for this woman for her impending total blindness, her widow status, and her impossible situation. And her undeterred pursuit of her child won’t let us put the book down until we reach the final page.
Mixed with the hint of a possible romance and the trials faced by anyone dealing with a handicap in today’s culture, Frey’s storytelling will keep readers on the edge of their seats, while also playing the heartstrings.
Rea Frey’s third novel guarantees her place in today’s domestic suspense genre as a writer who’s here to stay.
Excerpt from Until I Find You
I push the stroller. My feet expertly navigate the familiar path toward the park without my cane. Footsteps advance behind me. The swish of fabric between hurried thighs. The clop of a shoe on pavement. Measured, but gaining with every step. Blood whooshes through my ears, a distraction.
One more block until the park’s entrance. My world blots behind my sunglasses, smeared and dreamy. A few errant hairs whip across my face. My toe catches a crack, and my ankle painfully twists.
No time to stop.
My thighs burn. A few more steps. Finally, I make a sharp left into the park’s entrance. Jackson’s anklet jingles from the blistering pace.
“Hang on, sweet boy. Almost there. Almost.” The relentless August sun sizzles in the sky, and I adjust my ball cap with a trembling hand. Uncertain, I stop and wait for either the rush of footsteps to pass, or to approach and attack. Instead, nothing.
I lick my dry lips and half turn, one hand still securely fastened on my son’s stroller. “Hello?” The wind stalls. The hairs bristle on the back of my neck. My world goes unnaturally still, until I choke on my own warped breath.
I waver on the sidewalk and then lunge toward the entrance toWilder. The stroller is my guide as I half walk, half jog, knowing precisely how many steps I must take to reach the other side of the gate.
My heart thumps, a manic metronome. Jackson squeals and kicks his foot. The bells again.
The footsteps echo in my ears. The stroller rams an obstacle in the way and flattens it. I swerve and cry out in surprise.
I reach the gate, hurtle through to a din of voices. Somewhere in the distance, a lawn mower stutters then chugs to life.
I slide toward the ground and drop my head between my knees. My ears prick for the stranger behind me, but all is lost. A plane roars overhead, probably heading for Chicago. Birds aggressively chirp as the sun continues to crisp my already pink shoulders. A car horn honks on the parallel street. Someone blows a whistle. My body shudders from the surge of adrenaline. I sit until I regain my composure and then push to shaky legs.
I check Jackson, dragging my hands over the length of his body— his strong little fingers, his plump thighs, and perpetually kicking feet—and blot my face with his spit-up blanket. Just when I think I’m safe, a hand encircles my wrist.
I jerk back and suck a surprised breath.
The hand drops. “I’m sorry,” a woman’s voice says. “I didn’t mean to scare you. You dropped this.” Something jingles and lands in my upturned palm: Jackson’s anklet.
I smooth my fingers over the bells. “Thanks.” I bend over the stroller, grip his ankle, and reattach them. I tickle the bottom of his foot, and he murmurs.
“Are the bells so you can hear him?” the woman asks. “Are you . . . ?”
“Blind? Yes.” I straighten. “I am.”
“That’s cool. I’ve never seen that before.”
I assume she means the bells. I almost make a joke—neither have I!—but instead, I smile. “It’s a little early for him to wear them,” I explain.
“They’re more for when he becomes mobile, but I want him to get used to them.”
I’m not sure if she’s waiting for me to say something else. “Thanks again,” I offer.
“No problem. Have a good day.”
She leaves. My hands clamp around the stroller’s handle. Was she the one behind me? I stall at the gate and wonder if I should just go back home. I remind myself where I am—in one of the safest suburbs outside of Chicago—not in some sketchy place. I’m not being followed.
To prove it, I remove my cane, unfold it, and brace it on the path. I maneuver Jackson’s stroller behind and sweep my cane in front, searching for more obstacles or unsuspecting feet.
I weave toward Cottage Hill and pass the wedding garden, the Wilder Mansion, and the art museum. Finally, I wind around the arboretum. I leave the conservatory for last, pulling Jackson through colorful flower breeds, active butterflies, and rows of green. My heart still betrays my calm exterior, but whoever was there is gone.
I whisk my T-shirt from my body. Jackson babbles and then lets out a sharp cry. I adjust the brim of his stroller so his eyes aren’t directly hit by the sun. I lower my baseball cap and head toward the play-ground. The rubber flooring shifts beneath my cane.
Wilder Park is packed with last-minute late-summer activity. I do a lap around the playground and then angle my cane toward a bench to check for occupants. Once I confirm it’s empty, I settle and park the stroller beside me. I keep my ears alert for Jess or Beth. I think about calling Crystal to join us, but then remember she has an interior design job today.
I place my hand on Jackson’s leg, the small jingle of his anklet a comfort. Suddenly, I am overcome with hunger. I rummage in the diaper bag for a banana, peel it, and reach again for Jackson, who is playing with his pacifier. He furiously sucks then knocks it out of his mouth. He giggles every time I hand it back to him.
I replay what just happened. If someone had attacked me, I wouldn’t have been able to defend myself or identify the perpetrator. A shiver courses the length of my spine. Though Jackson is technically easy—healthy, no colic, a decent sleeper—this stage of life is not. Chris died a year ago, and though it’s been twelve months since the accident, sometimes it feels like it’s been twelve days.
Jackson’s life flashes before me. Not the happy baby playing in his stroller, but the other parts. The first time he gets really sick. The first time he has to go to the emergency room, and I’m all alone. The first time I don’t know what to do when something is wrong. The first time he runs away from me in public and isn’t wearing bells to alert me to his location.
Will I be able to keep him safe, to protect him?
I will the dark cloud away, but uneasiness pierces my skin like a warning. I fan my shirt, swallow, close my eyes behind my sunglasses, and adjust my ball cap.
The world shrinks. I try to swallow, but my throat constricts. I claw air.
I can’t breathe. I’m drowning. My heart is going to explode. I’m going to die.
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 bliss- fully 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.”
My stomach clenches at those words: everything you’ve been through.
After Chris died, I moved in with my mother so she could essentially become Jackson’s nanny. And then, just two months ago, she died too. Though her death wasn’t a surprise due to her lifelong heart condition, no one is ever prepared to lose a parent. “I can’t afford it.”
“Like I’ve said before, Rob and I are happy to pitch in—”
I lift my hand to stop her. “And I appreciate it. I really do. But I’m not ready to have someone in my space when I’m just getting used to it being empty. I need to get comfortable taking care of Jackson on my own.”
“That makes sense,” Beth assures me.
“It does.” Jess pats my thigh. “But you’re not a martyr, okay? Everyone needs help.”
“I know.” I adjust my sunglasses and rearrange my face in hopes of hiding the real emotions I feel. “What’s new with both of you?”
“Can I vent for a second?” Beth asks. She situates closer to us on the bench. Thanks to the visual Jess supplied, I know Beth is blond, petite, and impossibly fit—and is perpetually in a state of crisis. She’s practicing attachment parenting, which, in her mind, keeps her glued to her son twenty-four hours a day. I’ve never even held him.
“Vent away,” I say.
“Okay.” She drops her voice. “Like, I love this little guy, truly. But sometimes, when it’s just the two of us in the house all day, I fantasize about just running away somewhere. Or going out to take a walk. I’d never do it, of course,” she rushes to add. “But I just have this feeling like . . . I’m never going to be alone again.”
“Nanny,” Jess trills. “I’m telling you. Quit this attachment parenting crap and get yourself a nanny. And if she’s hot, she can even occupy your husband so you don’t have to.”
I slap Jess’s arm. “Don’t say that. You’d be totally devastated if Rob ever did cheat.”
Rea Frey, author of Until I Find You
REA FREY is the multi-published, award-winning bestselling author of three suspense novels and four nonfiction books.
She’s been featured in US Weekly, Entertainment Weekly, Glamour, Popsugar, Hello Sunshine, Marie Claire, Parade, Shape, Hello Giggles, CrimeReads, Writer’s Digest, WGN, Fox News, Today in Nashville, Talk of the Town, and more.
She is also the CEO and Founder of Writeway, where aspiring writers become published authors.
Want to work with Rea on your writing project? Visit: writewayco.com.
To learn more about Rea, click on her name, photo, or any of the following links: Goodreads, BookBub – @ReaFreyAuthor, Instagram – @reafrey, Twitter – #ReaFrey & Facebook – @reafrey
Visit all the stops along the Until I Find You Partners In Crime Book Tour!
04/26 Guest post @ Novels Alive
04/27 Showcase @ Books, Ramblings, and Tea
04/28 Interview/showcase @ CMash Reads
04/29 Review @ Book Reviews From an Avid Reader
04/29 Showcase @ The Reading Frenzy
04/30 Showcase @ Nesies Place
05/01 Review @ The World As I See It
05/02 Showcase @ EienCafe
05/02 Showcase @ Im Into Books
05/03 Showcase @ Celticladys Reviews
05/04 Review @ amandainpa
05/05 Showcase @ 411 ON BOOKS, AUTHORS, AND PUBLISHING NEWS
05/05 Showcase @ nanasbookreviews
05/07 Interview @ BooksChatter
05/11 Review @ Sunny Island Breezes
05/12 Review @ Booked on a Feeling
05/12 Review @ Jane Pettit Reviews
05/13 Review @ Wall-to-wall Books
05/13 Showcase @ The Bookwyrm
05/14 Review @ Jersey Girl Book Reviews
05/15 Review @ Pat Fayo Reviews
05/16 Review @ Nikki H. Rose | Bookstagram
05/17 Guest post @ Colloquium
05/17 Review @ Author Elena Taylors Blog
05/18 Showcase @ Brooke Blogs
05/19 Review @ A Room Without Books is Empty
05/20 Review @ Colloquium
08/18 Interview Podcast @ Blogtalk Radio
08/18 Review @ Just Reviews
Elena Taylor is the author of All We Buried, available now in print, e-book, and audio book format at all your favorite on-line retailers. And don’t forget many independent bookstores can order books for you and have them shipped to your home or for curbside pickup.
Amazon Kindle Monthly Deal, $1.99 May 1-31
For more information on All We Buried, click on the link here to visit the home page.
Foreword INDIE Award Finalist, Best Mystery 2020