Chapter Three Calla
The mornings start early now. Too early. Beau’s got his backpack on before I’ve even finished my coffee, holding up his lunchbox like it’s some kind of trophy. It’s loud, blue with dinosaurs, a last-minute thrift store win he’s already covered in stickers. He’s excited. I pretend I am, too.
I buckle Beau into his booster seat, the morning still thick with dew and nerves. His backpack is too big for his little body, straps slipping off his shoulders as he squirms and fidgets, all energy and chatter.
“Do you think they’ll have chocolate milk at school, Mama?” he asks, kicking his sneakers gently against the back of the passenger seat.
“If they don’t, we’ll riot,” I say, forcing a smile as I shut his door and circle to the driver’s side. My keys jingle in my hand, betraying the shake in my fingers.
He giggles at the word riot, like it’s something silly and fun.
I start the engine and let the heat hum through the truck as I adjust the mirror to catch his face.
He’s practically vibrating with excitement.
First day of kindergarten. First real step into a world I’m not sure how to protect him from.
The gas light’s been on since last night, so I pull into the only station between us and the school.
It's early, barely seven, and the lot is mostly empty except for a lineup of rumbling machines parked off to the side.
Motorcycles. Big ones. And three leather-clad bodies inside the convenience store.
I see the flashes of kuttes through the glass.
Club colors.
The blood drains from my face. Beau's humming to himself in the back seat, totally unaware. I don’t recognize the patches from here.
I don’t recognize the men either. But my stomach clenches anyway, hard and hot.
I can’t see him, but that doesn’t mean he’s not inside.
Or just around the corner. Or behind me already.
“Please, not today,” I whisper.
It’s not fear. Not exactly. I’m not afraid of the club. Not of what they are. I’ve seen worse and survived it. But I cannot see Beck Wilder right now. Not when I’ve barely stitched myself back together. Not when I have to drop my son—our son—off at school with a steady hand and a lie on my lips.
I grip the steering wheel. My breath stutters.
“Can I come in with you?” Beau asks from the back.
“No, baby. I’ll just be a second. You stay in your seat.”
I get out. Keep my head down. Don’t look toward the store windows.
I swipe my card, pump the gas, and stare down at the nozzle like it holds the secret to staying invisible.
Beau laughs at something in his hands—a keychain toy he must’ve found in the seat.
That sound keeps me grounded. It's the only thing that does.
When the tank clicks full, I get back in the car fast.
“Did you see the bikes, Mama?” Beau points as we pull away. “They were loud and shiny. I like them.”
I nod, throat tight. “Yeah, baby. I know you do.”
I follow the GPS toward the elementary school, heart thudding like it’s me starting kindergarten, not Beau.
His little fingers tap a rhythm against his booster seat. “Mama? Will my teacher be nice?”
“She’ll be the nicest,” I whisper, even though I haven’t met her. Even though my gut twists. “And you’re gonna do amazing.”
The paperwork’s finally done. The shots, the forms, the phone calls—they all led to this. A real school. A real chance at normal. I park in the visitor lot and force my lungs to keep working.
Beau kicks his feet like he’s on a swing. “Do I look okay?”
He does. Fresh sneakers, new jeans a size too big, his favorite red hoodie.
He looks perfect. He looks like him. God, Beck.
That same smirk. Same stubborn tilt of the chin.
Same way he grins when he’s unsure, like he’s already bracing to get in trouble but dares you to stop him.
Beau’s just like him. And I don’t know if that should terrify me, or break me.
I climb out and walk around to his side, opening the door. “You ready, bug?”
He nods with wide eyes, then climbs out with his little backpack slung over one shoulder. I take his hand, even though I know soon he’ll be too big for this. Too cool. But not yet.
Inside the front office, the secretary recognizes us. “Beau Hale? All set. Just head down the blue hallway to Room 2B. Mrs. Keegan’s class.”
Beau beams like he just won a prize. I crouch and press a kiss to his temple. “Remember what we practiced?”
He nods. “Be kind. Be brave. And don’t tell nobody about my punch.”
“Exactly,” I say, trying not to cry-laugh.
He turns and walks down the hall, that red hoodie bouncing with each step. He doesn’t look back. I wait until he disappears around the corner before I let myself fall apart. He’s in. He’s safe. He’s growing up in a world I clawed my way out of, bloodied, just to give him.
And I’ll burn it all to the fucking ground before I let it touch him.
I scrub the tears from my eyes, straighten my spine, and head back to the truck.
The second I shut the door, I lock it. My hands shake as I turn the key, the engine rumbling to life.
I take one last look at the school, just a regular brick building with peeling trim and a flagpole out front, and force myself to drive.
It’s fifteen minutes to the prison. Fifteen long minutes where my brain fills the silence with worst-case scenarios and ancient fears.
I grip the wheel tighter at every stop sign.
Blink harder at every shadow. And then I see it.
The same matte black bike from the gas station, same wide bars, same clawed sticker on the back fender, parked near the school fence now, angled toward the exit road. Empty.
My heart tries to climb through my throat.
I gun it through the light. There’s a tail of dust behind me as I push past the posted limits, white-knuckling the wheel and checking my mirrors.
I don’t slow until the prison gates rise in front of me, the razor wire catching sunlight like a crown of thorns.
The front lot is half full. State cars. Beat-up sedans.
CO trucks with dented bumpers and old union stickers.
No bikes. I breathe a little easier. I flash my ID at the security checkpoint, wait for the gate to buzz, then pull into my reserved space near the infirmary entrance. Engine off. Keys in my fist like brass knuckles. I sit there a beat too long. Just breathing.
Just reminding myself that I am not the same girl who ran. Not the same girl who bled. Not the same girl who begged for a life worth living. I’m the woman who survived it. And I’ve got a goddamn job to do.
The door buzzes behind me, and I’m inside.
Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in that sickly yellow tone that makes you look half-dead even when you’re not.
The air smells like bleach, sweat, and something metallic that clings to the back of your throat. I nod at the CO behind the desk. He barely glances up.
“New med ward intake’s backed up,” he mutters.
I scan my badge, push through the second security door, and follow the hallway until the infirmary comes into view—steel cabinets, frosted glass, institutional green tiles that no amount of scrubbing will ever make feel clean.
I head into the locker room, strip off my soft hoodie, and pull on the stiff prison-issued scrub top.
My ID badge goes back on. Hair up. Gloves in the pocket.
Knife clipped just inside my waistband, hidden but there.
Calla Hale, LPN.
The weight of the badge on my chest is familiar now.
Not quite comforting. But steady. I check the whiteboard—three inmate check-ins, one suture recheck, and a med refill to log.
Another day in hell. Another day closer to safety.
I roll my shoulders back, flex my fingers, and head out into the ward, ignoring the distant echo of boots on concrete behind me.
The door buzzes again. That sound’s already threaded itself into my spine—louder than it should be. Like a warning I haven’t figured out how to listen to. I don’t turn around until I hear the voice.
“Guess you’re still here.”
It’s him. The older man with the torn arm and the quiet eyes. There’s a fresh bandage on his elbow now, but the way he leans against the doorframe says something else is bleeding.
“I’m surprised they let you back in,” he says, like he’s making a joke but watching for my reaction.
I keep my hands busy—restocking a tray of gauze, counting silently. “I’m full-time now. Shift rotation.”
“Hmph.” He drops onto the stool without being asked. “Figured you’d ghost.”
“Not my style.”
He grins at that, small and sharp. “You sure about that?”
I finally glance up. He’s older. Gray in his beard. But his eyes? They’re sharp. Clever. Watching me too hard. Just like before.
I point to the fresh scratch on his forearm. “What happened?”
“Kitchen. Fought a can of chili. It won.”
I don’t laugh, but my lips twitch. “Let’s clean it before it gets infected.”
We lapse into silence again. Familiar now. Comfortable in a way that’s deeply uncomfortable. Like a question hanging between us, waiting to be asked.
Then he says it. “You look like someone I knew.”
I go still.
He continues, like he doesn’t notice, or like he does and doesn’t care. “Long time ago. Girl with winter eyes and too much fire. Always ran her mouth and never backed down. Thought she’d end up dead or dangerous.”
I don’t say anything. Can’t.
“She was in deep with a boy she shouldn’t’ve touched,” he adds. “One of ours. That kid damn near burned the whole town down when she disappeared.”
I press the gauze a little too hard, and he hisses through his teeth. I mumble an apology.
“She have a name?” I ask, quiet.
He looks at me for a long moment. Then he shrugs. “Nah. Doesn’t matter now. Ghosts ain’t real.”
But before the guard returns, he leans in, voice like gravel wrapped in velvet. “Still. If I were you, I’d be careful. Berlin remembers the ones who don’t stay buried.”
And then he’s gone again, leaving the scents of bleach, blood, and old warnings in the air. I sit there for a long time after he leaves, the gauze still in my hand, my fingertips sticky. My stomach turns. Not from the blood. From the truth he left behind.
Berlin remembers the ones who don’t stay buried. And I’m back, aren’t I? Unburied. Unforgiven. I should’ve never come back. My chest tightens, and I press a palm to it like I can quiet the ache. It doesn’t help.
Rook. His name lives in the space between every breath I take in this town.
I hate it. I hate that after all these years, it still echoes, still owns parts of me I swore I buried right alongside my old life.
I loved him. God, I loved him. We were stupid and young and wild. And I thought that would be enough.
It wasn’t.
He never came for me. Not once. Not when my mother dragged me out of Berlin like I was something broken and shameful.
Not when I was locked in that sterile cage of a house two states away without a phone, without a window that opened, without anyone.
She said I embarrassed the family. She said the club ruined me.
But the truth is—she was scared. Scared that if I had a way to reach him, I would’ve found a way back.
And she was right. I wrote him letters. Every week. Poured my heart onto page after page. Told him I was sorry. Told him I loved him. Told him there was more than just me now. That he was going to be a father. I sent them all, even though I never knew if they’d make it past her.
They didn’t. No phone. No visits. No reply. Nothing. So I believed the only thing I could: that he didn’t want me. That he didn’t care. And still… I miss him like hell.
I miss the roar of bikes on back roads, the way the club welcomed me like I belonged.
I miss the fire in his eyes, the way he touched me like I was sacred.
I miss being loved like I was worth the wreckage.
But maybe that was just the lie I told myself to survive it.
Because if he did care? If he had looked for me?
If he knew about Beau all this time and still stayed gone?
Then that’s so much worse. That’s unforgivable.
But that was then. I blink and shake it off, sucking in a sharp breath as the silence in the room closes in around me again.
I’m not sixteen anymore. I’m not some wide-eyed girl writing love letters like they’re lifelines.
I’m a woman now. A mother. Beau is all I have.
Beau is all I need. He’s the reason I survived that house.
The reason I kept breathing when everything else in me wanted to stop.
When I felt like a ghost—my body there, my soul hollowed out—he was the flicker of light in all that dark.
I won’t let anyone take that from me again. Not my mother. Not Berlin. Not Rook. I don’t have time for heartbreak, or memories, or what-ifs. Love is a luxury for girls who get to choose. I don’t. I haven’t for a long time.
This town is just a pit stop. A detour. Temporary. It’s close enough to get back on my feet but far enough that no one asks too many questions. I can work. I can save. I can get out.
I’ll find a better job. A higher-paying one. And when I do, we’ll be gone. Somewhere safer. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere I can give Beau the life he deserves. But for now, Berlin is the devil I know.
I stand up, stretching the tension from my limbs as I head for the bathroom. The mirror greets me with tired eyes and a ponytail that’s half-escaped its tie. I splash cold water on my face, watching as the girl in the glass slowly shifts back into someone I recognize.
Calla Lily Hale. Mother. Survivor. Nobody’s fool. Whatever Berlin has waiting for me, I’ll handle it. I always do.