Chapter 6
Cal
Walnut’s always been one of my favorite woods to work with. The color’s rich, and the grain’s got a way of standing out just enough to make a piece feel like it’s got some history behind it, even when it’s brand new.
I plane the lid until it’s smooth enough to catch the light just right. I run my hand along the beveled edge, checking for any rough spots. I go slower than usual, double-checking everything. If this thing’s going to hold Elle’s keepsakes, it needs to be perfect.
The carving on the front took some time to figure out.
I didn’t want anything too fancy, just something personal.
I settled on a simple floral design, soft curves, nothing showy.
But right in the center, I added her name.
Elle. Clean, subtle lettering, tucked just above the petals like it’s always belonged there.
It felt right, like the piece finally had a purpose once her name was on it.
It isn't big—ten inches wide, six deep, and four tall—but it doesn’t need to be. It’s built to hold what matters. I lined the inside with velvet in a deep violet color. It's elegant but still warm. Like her.
The hinges are tight, tucked in enough to keep the lines clean. The lid closes with that soft click I always aim for. No squeak. No wobble. Just solid work, the way it should be.
Truth is, this box isn’t complicated. But every cut, every carve, every minute I spent sanding, it all meant something. More than I’ve put into a project in a long time.
Because it’s for her.
And yeah, that matters more than I want to admit.
***
"Well, hello," Elle's voice rings out through the shop, light, unmistakably cheerful.
When I turn, she's standing in the doorway, smiling like the world just tilted in her favor. It's the kind of smile that says either she hit the jackpot, or life finally handed her something she’s been waiting a lifetime for.
I quickly toss a towel over the box on my workbench before she sees it. It’s not finished yet, and I want the moment to be right when I give it to her. Right now, whatever she's carrying in that smile feels bigger than anything I’ve got under a towel.
"What’s going on?" I ask, wiping my hands on a rag. "You look radiant."
"Really?" she says, brushing a hand over her forehead. "Maybe I’m just sweaty. I just got back from the park."
"The park?" I raise an eyebrow. "Don’t tell me you went on a picnic without me."
"Not quite." Her smile softens. There's something deeper in her eyes now. Something layered with nerves and hope. "Remember how I told you I haven’t seen my little sister in almost ten years?"
"Yeah." I nod slowly, my curiosity tightening into focus.
"Where’s Hannah?" she asks, her eyes scanning the play area I built out in the corner. Books are stacked neatly in a crate, her favorite coloring pencils lined up on the desk beside some half-finished drawings.
"With my parents," I say. "She begged for a sleepover, and I figured it wouldn’t hurt. Gave me some extra hours in the shop."
Elle nods, taking it in. Her gaze lingers on Hannah’s little world—just long enough that I know she’s thinking about more than crayons and construction paper.
"My little sister was about Hannah’s age the last time I saw her," she says, and the brightness that lit up her face when she walked in dims just a little. Her gaze shifts, far away now, like she’s seeing something I can’t.
"Are you ready to talk about it?" I ask gently. It’s a subject she’s kept locked tight, and I’ve never pushed.
She nods, finally meeting my eyes. "I want to tell you everything."
"Okay," I say, offering her a steady smile.
"Do you mind if I go home first and clean up?" she asks, glancing down at her clothes. "When I said I was sweating, I wasn’t kidding."
“Got plans for dinner?” I ask, shooting her a grin.
She smiles back and shakes her head.
“Meet you at the house in an hour?” I say. “I could use a shower too. Been out here all day.”
***
"You look beautiful," I say as I open the screen door and step aside to let Elle in.
"So do you," she replies, giving me that look. The one she knows will earn her a kiss.
I reach for her, pulling her close. Her arms slide around me, and I catch the crisp floral scent of her shampoo. It hits me in that subtle, perfect way.
"I love the smell of your shampoo," I murmur, leaning in to breathe it in. It’s fresh, clean—her.
"You smell like something I’d want to wrap around me and get lost in," she says, her voice playful.
Her eyes find mine—steady, clear, no walls between us. I kiss her. Slow. Sure. Not in a rush to get anywhere else but here. Her lips move with mine—teasing, tasting—and for a second, the rest of the world falls away.
I pull her inside and close the door behind her, locking it with one hand while the other finds her waist. I press her gently against the door and lean in, deepening the kiss.
Our breaths mingle. Our hearts fall into rhythm.
There’s a promise in the way we hold each other, unspoken, but felt all the same.
I start to pull back, reminding myself there’s a conversation we still need to have. But she catches me before I can get far, her hand curling into my shirt as she pulls me in again. The kiss grows deeper, hungrier, until we’re both breathless.
“Do you know what you do to me, Elle?” I murmur into her ear as she pulls me down onto the couch beside her.
“I have a pretty good idea,” she teases, her voice low. Her hazel eyes meet mine—darker now, full of something deeper than want. Need. I feel her fingers tracing lazy circles on my forearm as I kiss her, and I let myself sink into the undeniable connection we share.
“What’s this?” she asks, pulling away, her thumb gently brushing the inside of my arm.
I glance down at the ink. She’s all I have.
“That was my first tattoo,” I say. “Got it to mark something I couldn’t forget.”
“I know,” she says softly, “but… there’s something under it. The skin—it’s rough. Raised.”
“It’s a scar,” I admit. “That’s why I put the tattoo there.”
She doesn’t say anything right away. Just keeps tracing the scar beneath the words, like she’s trying to read the story written under my skin.
“Elle,” I say gently, my voice quieter now. “Let’s talk about your sister.”
She raises an eyebrow. “I’ll talk about my sister… if you talk about this tattoo.”
“You’ve got yourself a deal,” I say. “You go first.”
But before she can speak, the phone rings, loud and sharp in the quiet room.
We both glance toward it. She smiles shyly. “Are you going to get that?”
I sigh, reluctantly pulling back. “I should. It might be Mom.”
She nods, though I can tell neither of us really wants to break the moment. “Go on, I’m not going anywhere.”
"Hi, Mom," I say. "Everything okay?"
"Hi, sweetheart," she says warmly. "I'm calling to invite you over for dinner."
"I already have dinner plans," I say, winking at Elle. "Thanks anyway."
"Okay, son. I’ll talk to you tomorrow then."
After I end the call, I turn to Elle. "When can I introduce you to my folks?"
Her eyes widen slightly. "You want me to meet your parents?"
I nod, smiling. "Of course I do."
“I can’t wait to meet Mr. and Mrs. Jackson,” she says brightly.
I chuckle. "Jackson?"
She tilts her head. "Isn't that your last name?"
I shake my head. "No, ma'am."
"But your business?" She replies. "It's Jackson & Company, right?"
"It is," I say, "but Jackson's my first name."
Her smile falters. "Wait—your name isn’t Cal?"
"My full name's Jackson Callahan."
She goes still. "Callahan?" she echoes, her smile gone. Her whole posture shifts—tense now.
"What is it?" I ask, my brows pulling together. "What’s wrong?"
She’s staring at me like I just ripped off a mask and revealed someone she doesn’t recognize underneath. Her whole body goes still, then a second later, she bolts off the couch—fast, like I’ve become something dangerous. Like she just realized she’s sitting beside a rattle snake.
She paces back and forth, her arms crossed tight across her chest, her breath coming hard. I’ve seen panic before. I’ve seen people try to hold it together when their world cracks open. And that’s what this looks like. Like her world is splitting at the seams.
I stay rooted to the spot, watching her, unsure if I should speak or give her space. My mouth opens, then closes.
I don’t know what just happened.
One second she was laughing, teasing me.
The next, I’m the epicenter of whatever this is.
And what terrifies me most is the look in her eyes—like she’s seeing not just a stranger, but a ghost she’s spent years trying to forget.
Finally, I find my voice, though it feels like gravel in my throat.
"Elle," I say, carefully. "Please… talk to me. What’s going on?"
She stops pacing just long enough to look at me, and for the first time, I realize she’s not just upset. She’s devastated. And whatever it is, it’s tied to me.
Her eyes narrow, her nostrils flare, she’s on the verge of breaking. I can see it. But the tears don’t come. Not yet. Something’s holding them back.
Is it anger?
Hurt?
Fear?
I don’t know. But whatever it is, it’s aimed squarely at me.
"Cal," she begins, her voice unsteady. "Jackson. Whatever your name is... I need to ask you something. And I need you to tell me the truth."
"Okay," I say without hesitation, my stomach knotting. "What is it?"
"What did you do for a living before woodworking?"
"I was a cop."
The color drains from her face. She sways slightly, and for a second, I think she might collapse. But she doesn't. She plants her feet like she's bracing for impact.
Her voice is tight. "What is that tattoo covering?"
The question blindsides me. I glance down at my arm. "A bite mark," I say quietly. “From years ago.”
She nods, looks away, then back at me. A tear slips down her cheek. Then another. And another.
"What's your sister’s name?" she asks, her voice low, barely above a whisper.
"My sister?" I repeat, thrown by the question. "Beth. Beth Callahan."
"Beth as in Elizabeth," she says. "Elizabeth Hazel. Right?"
I freeze. My chest tightens. "How... how do you know that?"
But I already know. I feel the blood rush from my head as everything begins to slide into place—the scar, the name, the way she looked at me when I said Callahan.
"Elle—"
But she’s already turning, already walking away. The door swings shut behind her with a hard, echoing thud that feels a hell of a lot like the beginning of the end.