Until I Find You by Rea Frey | #Showcase #Interview #Giveaway

Until I Find You

by Rea Frey

April 26 – May 21, 2021 Tour


Until I Find You by Rea Frey

The Set-Up

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.

The Search

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.

Book Details:

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.
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | IndieBound | Goodreads


Author Bio:

Rea Frey

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.

To learn more, visit reafrey.com or writewayco.com.

Q&A with Rea Frey

What was the inspiration for this book?

In a nutshell: Until I Find You is about a blind widow, Rebecca Gray, who believes her three-month-old son, Jackson, has been swapped for another baby…but no one will believe her. I first got the idea after having recurring nightmares about hearing a baby cry in the room next door. But every time I would go to get the baby, I’d reach into the crib and realize it wasn’t my baby. This image kept coming to me again and again, but I couldn’t figure out how to write about it. After a brainstorming session with my editor, I decided to make my protagonist, Rebecca Gray, vision-impaired. While she believes her three-month-old son has been swapped for another baby, what happens when no one believes her? It seems like such an improbable but scary thing to consider…and, as I’ve struggled with eye issues my whole life, I felt passionate about creating a character with a disability.

What has been the biggest challenge in your writing career?

I think the biggest challenge in anyone’s writing career today is having to wear so many hats. When my first book was published (17 years ago!), it was just about writing. Now, it’s about writing, marketing, promoting, and consistently feeling as though you have to stay RELEVANT in order to be a “successful’ author. It’s important not to constantly compare yourself to other authors in your space, to feel overwhelmed, or like you’re not doing enough… it’s very easy to focus on results, more than the craft.

What do you absolutely need while writing?

Quiet! I used to write in coffee shops, but during quarantine, with my daughter and husband at home EVERY SECOND OF THE DAY, I felt literally unglued. So, I invested in a tiny home at the back of our acre lot, and it’s been a game changer. I can hear myself think.

Do you adhere to a strict routine when writing or write when the ideas are flowing?

Since I run a business for writers who want to become published, Writeway, and juggle a large client list, my writing has to come in seasons. I’m a very fast writer (luckily), and once I engage in a project, I’M IN IT, and it’s a fast and furious race to finish. But I’ve long ago given up on the notion that I must write every day (for me), since I’m writing every day for my clients and reading constantly. For me, one of the most important parts of writing is processing, so I take a lot of solo walks to ideate and problem-solve in my head. I do find when I set a 3000 word count goal and put that at the top of most days, I feel better in every way. But sometimes life happens, and I just have to roll with it. While I often dream of JUST writing, I absolutely love helping writers achieve their dreams too. It’s my way of giving back, and if my own writing time suffers a bit in the process, I’m okay with that.

Who is your favorite character from your book and why?

I love Rebecca Gray, because she has endured so much. She’s lost her mother, her husband, her vision, and her child, yet she never wavers from her convictions. She is the epitome of resilience.

Tell us why we should read your book.

I love exploring family dynamics and having the reader question what he or she would do in any given situation. I also love taking black and white issues and making them gray. Can you ever do the wrong thing for the right reason? I love testing a reader’s limits and nudging them to think in different ways.

Give us an interesting fun fact or a few about your book?

In my effort to research, I went to the Tennessee School for the Blind and really learned how the vision-imparied community works. I also worked with a local cop who informed me how “crimes” are often handled (or mishandled) within this community. As the book takes place in Elmhurst, I went there to stay with friends, where my husband led me around blindfolded so I could literally step into Rebecca Gray’s shoes (which was terrifying).

Do you have anything specific that you want to say to your readers?

I appreciate every single one of you. Your feedback and willingness to spend time with these characters makes every writer’s career possible. My only ask is that if you enjoy the book to tell someone about the book or share and review! Word-of-mouth is still the most powerful tool, in my opinion.

Tell us a little about yourself and your background?

I went to school for fiction writing and had a novel published when I was 22, but the entire thing blew up in my face. The publisher was a vanity publisher. I never saw a dime from that book, and it really sent me down the path of wanting to understand the industry I wanted to be a part of. Disappointed with fiction, I turned to nonfiction, wrote a bunch of health and wellness books that were traditionally published, and I stuck my hand in every facet of writing that I could–I became a journalist on three death row cases; I wrote for newspapers, magazines, and worked for billion-dollar corporations. I was hired out as a ghostwriter and editor. But, at the end of the day, the tug to return to fiction was so strong, and it wasn’t until the end of 2016–after more than a decade-long hiatus from fiction writing–that I got the inspiration for a book while standing in an airport, where I witnessed a horrific mother-daughter exchange. I was a woman possessed. I promptly went home, quit two of the three jobs I was working, and I wrote the book that would become my debut, Not Her Daughter, in a month. I landed an agent. The book went to auction and landed a two-book deal with Macmillan, then a movie deal, then another two book deal. It seemed I was on top of the world…but then I realized that I had to SELL the books. That this fairytale would only continue if readers picked up my books. This began a side hustle to raise money to hire a publicist as well as help other authors with their books or book proposals, editing, and pitching to publishers. I wanted to share what I was learning. This side hustle grew to a six-figure business in year one and again in year two. At the top of 2020, despite a pandemic, I created Writeway, which helps aspiring writers become published authors. We created a weekly podcast, a weekly newsletter, and watched our company soar, as men and women decided they were finally going to write their books. It has been an honor to help our clients land agents, book deals, and even become bestselling authors. It’s unreal to be entrenched in this world as both an author and an entrepreneur…

What’s next that we can look forward to?

From a business perspective, we have weekly podcast episodes that publish every Tuesday, which demystify the publishing industry so writers can make informed decisions about their careers. Our weekly newsletter gives super fun industry news, freebies, and sneak peeks of what we’re working on. In terms of books, my next novel, Secrets of Our House, comes out February 8, 2022! Secrets of Our House is about a family torn apart by secrets. Desi Waters is trying to hang onto the last summer before her daughter leaves for college. No matter that her twenty-year-marriage is on the brink of divorce. No matter that her daughter falls madly in love and decides she doesn’t want to go to college after all. No matter that a decades-long secret Desi has been keeping threatens to come out and ruin everything. After a sudden plane crash threatens their livelihood, Desi must decide what secrets are worth keeping and what she will do to save her family–and ultimately, herself.

Catch Up With Rea Frey:
BookBub – @ReaFreyAuthor
Instagram – @reafrey
Twitter – #ReaFrey
Facebook – @reafrey


Read an excerpt:


Someone’s coming.

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.”

“That’s smart.”

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.

It’s fine.

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.”


Excerpt from Until I Find You by Rea Frey. Copyright 2020 by Rea Frey. Reproduced with permission from Rea Frey. All rights reserved.



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