Chapter 5 Calla
The house smells like cinnamon and something close to peace.
It’s one of those golden fall afternoons where everything feels a little slower, a little softer.
Beau’s outside, his laughter cracking through the open window above the sink, sharp and wild, and I swear it’s the only sound that can settle my nerves lately.
I press the heel of my hand into the dough on the counter, warm and sticky under my fingers. The oven hums behind me. Flour dust clings to the sleeves of my sweater, the same one Beau calls “the cookie armor.” I roll it up higher on my arms and glance out toward the backyard.
He’s on the swing again, the one I rigged up from a thick rope and a board, tied tight to the low-hanging limb of the sugar maple. He’s got muddy boots and wild curls and that stubborn little smirk that makes my chest ache.
"Five more minutes, baby!" I call through the screen door. "Then I need your help in here. Dough's almost ready."
He shouts something back, probably arguing, but I don’t catch it. The wind steals it before it reaches me. Leaves skitter across the porch, rustling like whispers, and I feel it before I hear it—the weight in the air. A heaviness that settles on my skin, thick and familiar.
Storm’s coming. The clouds have been building all morning, low and swollen like a warning. I’d checked the forecast. I always do now. Can’t afford surprises. But still, sometimes the weather doesn’t care what the app says.
I glance at the little generator light on the panel in the corner of the kitchen. Steady green. For now.
"Okay," I mutter under my breath, wiping my hands on a towel. "Five more minutes."
Maybe ten. Maybe just long enough to believe it’s really this simple. That I can have these quiet, fall days baking cookies, and my son’s laughter cutting through the storm like a prayer.
The wind howls out of nowhere. Not a breeze, this is the kind that rattles windows in their frames and slams the porch swing against the siding. I drop the towel and rush to the back of the house.
“Beau!” I shout, hand on the screen door. He’s not in sight.
The first fat drop of rain smacks against the steps. I run from room to room, slamming windows shut with flour still caked to my fingers. Curtains whip around me like ghosts. The air shifts—darker, meaner, charged with something that makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
The power cuts without warning. The hum of the fridge dies. The oven clicks off. The panel light on the generator flashes once, then goes black.
“Shit.”
I fumble for the flashlight drawer, yanking it open and praying Beau’s still just out back, playing in the leaves like he always does when it rains. I hit the porch at a run. The rain’s coming sideways now, fast and furious. I skid down the steps, boots splashing in the forming puddles.
“Beau!”
No answer.
“Baby, come inside!”
My voice echoes back at me, eaten alive by the wind.
I spin, eyes scanning the tree line, the swing, the toolshed.
Nothing. No movement. No small body barreling toward me with muddy hands and a toothy grin.
Panic is instant and full-body. Like I’ve stepped off the edge of something high and haven’t landed yet.
“Beau!” I scream again, louder this time, over the growl of thunder rolling in above us. “Answer me, baby! Please!”
Nothing. No laugh. No cry. No creak of the swing or thump of boots. Just the wild storm and the sound of my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest. The wind screams through the trees, and I scream with it.
“Beau!”
I’m running blind, flashlight beam bouncing off the rain-soaked yard and into shadows that won’t give me anything back. The swing creaks. The door to the toolshed flaps. My boots slip in the mud as I push deeper into the yard, calling again.
Nothing. No voice. No footsteps. No baby boy with dirt on his chin and laughter in his throat. Just… silence and storm. And suddenly, I’m not here anymore.
I’m back there. Alone in a sterile room, legs shaking, spine burning, teeth clenched as I sob into a pillow and beg a nurse who doesn’t care to stay.
No one holds my hand. No one strokes my hair or tells me I can do this.
The contractions rip me open. The fear splits me wider.
I scream for someone, anyone, but they all have other places to be. Other people to care for. Not me.
Not the girl who got knocked up and showed up with no visitors. Beau came into this world while I was bleeding and crying and broken and so fucking scared. And now—now I can’t find him.
My hand finds the grip of the Glock without thinking, always in my holster for situations like this.
Safety off. I don’t hesitate. I don’t blink.
Beau’s little boot prints are stamped in the mud, already softening in the downpour.
They veer toward the tree line, toward the trail he’s not supposed to go near without me.
My chest burns like fire under wet cotton as I take off, hair plastered to my cheeks, rain lashing sideways. I swipe it away with one shaking hand, gun steady in the other.
“Beau!” I shout. My voice cracks, and the storm swallows it whole.
He doesn’t answer. I follow the prints past the tire swing, past the oak tree with the wind chimes, onto the narrow trail between the trees that leads down toward the river bend and deeper into the woods. The wind howls through the trees like it knows what I’m afraid of.
Each step is slower now, cautious, calculated. My boots slip in the slick mud, but I stay up. I keep going. Because what else is there? He’s out here. My baby is out here. And I’ll rip this fucking world in half before I let it take him.
The trail narrows, winding like a scar through the trees.
My boots slosh in the mud as I press forward, rain pelting my face in icy sheets.
Branches whip at my arms. My lungs burn, but I don’t stop.
I can’t stop. I keep my eyes on the ground—on the small prints.
Then the tire tracks. Wide. Deep. Recent.
Lightning cracks overhead, a jagged scream across the sky.
For a second, everything glows white. I see the path veer up, steep and slick, and I take it at a crawl, half climbing, half stumbling.
My fingers dig into wet roots and rock. My knees hit mud.
I don’t feel it. I barely feel my body anymore.
All I see is Beau’s face swimming in my mind.
The hill levels out. I haul myself to the top, chest heaving, soaked straight through. And there it is. The old fence. The rusted-out sign bent sideways by time and storms.
Mill & Iron Salvage Yard.
My heart stops. Then slams into motion so hard it makes me dizzy. No lights. No movement. But the tracks lead here. And I swear, I swear I can feel him down there. My boy. In the last place I ever wanted him to be.
I don’t hesitate. I tear down the hill like the storm itself is chasing me, boots slipping on wet grass and slick dirt. Wind howls in my ears, and the rain lashes across my skin like punishment. But I don’t stop.
My fists clench tighter around the gun. The fence gives way as I shoulder past it, heart in my throat, breath coming in sharp bursts. The salvage yard is quiet—too quiet. Just rusted metal and shadows. The sky roars overhead, but nothing stirs inside the gates.
Where are you, baby?
I follow the tracks straight through the gravel lot.
My pulse pounds louder than the thunder now.
I reach the edge of the main building—tin roof, busted side door, red letters faded to blood-smear streaks in the rain.
I stop. I swallow hard. Every nerve screams at me to move.
To kick the door in. To scream his name.
But I don’t. Not yet. I grip the gun tighter. Then I take one step closer to hell.