Chapter 13
HALLIE MAE
T hey pulled back the sheet.
And I broke.
I didn’t even mean to. I didn’t have time to prepare, to breathe, to brace myself for the truth.
One second I was standing, swaying slightly in the sterile cold of that godawful room, and the next, my knees buckled.
I crumpled forward with a sound I didn’t recognize—raw, wounded, primal—and if Noah hadn’t caught me, I would’ve hit the floor.
“No—no, no, no, no, no—” The word came out over and over, a chant, a sob, a scream choked down by a throat that couldn’t hold it.
His face was right there. My daddy.
Still. Pale. His jaw slack, his eyes closed like sleep had caught him in the middle of a sentence. But this wasn’t sleep.
This was gone.
This was never again.
This was forever.
It took a second—maybe longer—for my eyes to make sense of what I was seeing.
But once they did, I couldn’t unsee it. The curve of his brow.
The faint freckle near his temple. The way his hands, folded neatly over his stomach, still bore the wedding ring he’d worn since the day he married Mama.
It was him. It was Daddy. And somehow that simple truth—that my brain had caught up with what my heart already knew—shattered the last fragile thread holding me upright.
I made a sound. Not a word. Not yet. Just something low and broken in the back of my throat.
The woman beside the curtain—the one in scrubs with a clipboard clutched to her chest—stepped a little closer. “Miss Calhoun,” she said gently, voice all sympathy and sterile professionalism. “Can you confirm the identity of the deceased?”
I nodded once, but that didn’t feel like enough. I opened my mouth, but my lips barely worked.
“It’s him,” I whispered. Then louder, so they’d know I wasn’t mistaken. So they could write it down, check their boxes, close whatever file they needed to. “It’s my daddy. Jamie Calhoun.”
And just like that, it became real. Legally, officially, in the eyes of the state and whatever clipboard that woman held.
I’d confirmed my father was gone.
The room spun.
I clawed at Noah’s chest, curled my fingers into his shirt and sobbed into the hollow of his neck like I could undo the world if I just held on hard enough. My screams echoed off the tile walls, too loud for a room that had known too much quiet. Too much death.
A woman behind the desk—one of the clerks, maybe, or a tech who’d seen more bodies than sunrises—pressed a hand to her mouth and turned away.
Another employee quietly stepped out of the room.
I didn’t care who watched. I didn’t care who heard.
I let the grief tear its way out of me, clawing up through my chest like it had been caged too long and wanted to ruin everything on its way out.
“I can’t—he’s not—he was just—” I couldn’t finish a thought. Couldn’t finish a sentence.
Noah said nothing. He just held me.
Solid.
Unmoving.
One arm wrapped tight around my back, the other cradling my head like he could shield me from the weight of it if he held me close enough. His chest didn’t rise with panic. His hands didn’t tremble. He didn’t flinch when I screamed so loud my voice cracked in half.
He just let me fall apart.
I don’t know how long I stood there, wailing into him, knees barely locked, body limp in his arms. Time blurred. Pain tunneled my vision. My face was wet with tears and spit, and I didn’t even care. My whole soul had unspooled right there in the morgue, and I couldn’t gather it back up.
At some point, someone gently re-covered Daddy’s face. Someone else dimmed the overhead light. Someone laid a hand on Noah’s shoulder and murmured something he didn’t respond to.
But all I heard was my own grief ringing in my ears. A sound I didn’t know I could make. A sound I didn’t think would ever leave me.
Eventually, I sagged hard against him, legs no longer holding me up. He eased us down, sitting on the edge of a bench along the wall, pulling me into his lap. I curled there, shaking and small, with his hand on my back and his lips near my temple .
“I’ve got you,” he said, voice low and sure. “You just breathe. That’s all you gotta do right now.”
But I couldn’t.
Not without the world I’d known five minutes ago, before someone pulled back a sheet and broke my heart in half.
Daddy was gone. And I was still breathing. Nothing about it felt fair.
I don’t know how I finally stopped crying.
I don’t know when the sobs slowed enough for me to breathe without tasting salt. I only know that eventually, I blinked and realized I was still sitting in Noah’s lap, my fingers tangled in his shirt, my cheek pressed to the steady rise and fall of his chest.
My throat was raw. My eyes felt like they’d been scoured from the inside. And still, the ache kept pulsing, low and merciless, like grief had made itself a second heartbeat.
It didn’t feel real yet. The shock came in waves—sharp, breathless, cruel—and every time I thought I’d surfaced, it pulled me back under.
Noah didn’t say anything. He just nodded against my temple and kept holding me like he could bear some of it for me. Maybe he could. Maybe he already was.
After a while, a nurse or an assistant—I didn’t catch her name—knelt in front of us and spoke gently.
“Your mother didn’t feel up to the identification,” she said softly, apologetically, like she was confessing something shameful. “She asked if someone else could do it. She … wasn’t in any condition.”
I swallowed hard, guilt lancing sharp and sudden through my chest.
“Where is she? ”
“At home,” the woman said. “Someone from the church has been sitting with her.”
Of course, she hadn’t come. Of course, she hadn’t walked into this room.
Mama had never been good with death. Even when Daddy would visit hospice patients from the congregation, she’d stay in the car or wait in the foyer, fingers wound tight in her Bible and a too-bright smile stretched across her grief.
Noah stood with me still in his arms, setting me gently on my feet like he knew I didn’t trust them to hold me yet.
I leaned into him as we walked out, past the morgue door, past the lowered eyes and murmured condolences of people who didn’t know what else to say.
Back out into the parking lot where the sky hung low and the clouds pressed down.
I slid into the passenger seat of his truck, and this time, I didn’t bother to buckle in. Just pulled my knees to my chest and pressed my forehead to the window, hard glass grounding me for the few seconds I needed not to fall apart again.
“We need to go to Mama’s,” I said after a moment, voice almost gone.
He nodded once. “What’s the address?”
I told him, and we pulled away from the station, the road to my childhood home stretching out in front of us.
The drive was short, but it felt endless. I watched the town pass by like it had betrayed me. The church steeple in the distance, the diner where Daddy took me for pancakes on my birthdays, the old gas station he always swore had better fuel than the new one across town. It was all still here.
And he wasn’t.
Noah reached over and rested a hand on my thigh, warm and steady. He didn’t say anything—just touched me like I was still real. Like I hadn’t disappeared into the hollow my father left behind.
Mama’s house came into view, black shutters and a porch swing creaking in the breeze. Nothing looked the same.
As we pulled up, I saw her—my mama—sitting out front in the rocking chair by the window. Back straight, eyes fixed on something far away. Her hands were folded in her lap, unmoving.
I opened the truck door slowly. Noah moved with me, silent, keeping close without crowding.
When Mama saw me, she didn’t stand. Didn’t wave. Didn’t smile. She just looked at me like she wasn’t sure if I was real.
I climbed the porch steps one at a time, and when I got close enough to touch her, I dropped to my knees and pressed my head into her lap like I was six years old again.
“I’m here,” I whispered. “Mama, I’m here.”
She broke.
Her hands, trembling and birdlike, sank into my hair as she bent low over me and wept. Not loud, not like me. But deep. Shuddering. Silent sobs that rocked her whole body.
Noah stood at the edge of the porch, head bowed, giving us space he knew we needed. But I felt him there.
And I knew—when I could breathe again, when I could stand without shaking—he’d still be standing right beside me.
Because I’d called him.
And he came.
And now, in the wreckage of everything I’d ever known, he was the only thing that felt sure.
The screen door creaked behind us .
Noah turned, his posture straightening subtly, his expression shifting into something harder—less open, more watchful.
A man stepped out onto the porch—older, probably in his early sixties, with gray hair swept neatly back and a funeral suit already on like he’d known from the start he wouldn’t change out of it today.
I recognized him instantly—Deacon Eldridge.
One of Daddy’s oldest friends. He’d been at First Baptist since before I was born, always the one to lock up the sanctuary after night services and walk the building with a flashlight like some kind of holy sentry.
He nodded gently at Mama and me, but his eyes moved past us—landing on Noah.
“You must be with Hallie Mae,” he said, stepping forward and offering a hand. “I’m Charles Eldridge. Was with the Reverend last night. We were planning the couples retreat for the fall.” His voice broke faintly at the end, and he cleared his throat to cover it.
Noah shook his hand. “Noah Dane.”
“Appreciate you bringing her here. Leanne needed her daughter.” He glanced toward Mama, still curled over me in the rocker, then lowered his voice. “It’s not real to her yet. Not really.”
“I understand,” Noah said. He slid his hands into his pockets, easy but alert. “Can I ask you something?”
The deacon blinked. “Of course.”
Noah angled his body slightly, like he was shielding the conversation from me and Mama. “Do they know what happened?”
Charles exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his jaw.
“Not much. Only what the police have told us—which isn’t nearly enough.
Said he was alone in his study at the church.
Was working late after I’d called it a night.
Leanne had gone home hours before. One of the janitors found him.
Front door was ajar. Thought that was strange. Walked in and … well.”
Noah’s jaw tensed. “Anything missing?”
“Not that they could tell. His phone and wallet were still there. Nothing appeared to be stolen.” Charles frowned. “But it doesn’t feel random.”
Noah nodded once, thoughtful. “Any reason someone might’ve wanted to hurt him?”
“None I can think of.” The deacon hesitated, glancing at the porch swing like it might hold answers. “He was respected. Loved. You know how it is, though. A man preaches about sin long enough, he’s bound to step on the wrong toes, eventually.”
“Did he say anything strange to you?” Noah pressed gently. “Seem nervous, upset?”
Charles shook his head. “He was tired. Said he’d been praying more than usual. That he felt something shifting. I figured he meant the shelter incident.”
Noah nodded.
A long silence stretched between them.
Then the deacon shifted. “Do the local police know who you are?”
Noah gave a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “They know enough.”
Charles studied him for a long moment, then nodded, like some quiet agreement had passed between them. “I’m from Charleston. I know your name. If there’s anything I can tell you, anything that might help … you come to me. Quietly, if you can.”
“I will,” Noah said.
The deacon looked back toward Mama and me. “I’m going inside. If either of you need anything, there’s a casserole in the oven and tea in the fridge. Some ladies from the congregation are on their way.”
Noah nodded. “Thanks.”
Charles disappeared inside, leaving the door cracked behind him.
Noah stepped back to the edge of the porch, arms crossed, his eyes scanning the quiet street beyond like he was already hunting something—someone.
I knew, watching him from where I still knelt at Mama’s knees, that he wasn’t just here to comfort me.
He was here to find the person who pulled the trigger.
And God help whoever it was when he did.