Chapter 7
Danielle
“Elle!” Cal’s voice echoes behind me, sharp in the still evening air.
I don't listen. My house is maybe a hundred feet away, just across the stretch of grass and gravel between us—but like in a nightmare, every step feels heavy, like I’m moving in slow motion. The front door stays maddeningly far away and out of reach.
“Elle!” he calls again, louder now, urgency bleeding into panic.
And then—
“Dani!”
That one word cuts deeper than anything. The sound of my name—what Izzy used to call me—stops me cold. My knees buckle, and I drop right there, the breath knocked clean out of my lungs.
"Elle," he says when he finally reaches me. "Are you okay?"
"Don’t touch me!" I snap, the words sharp.
"Elle, please," he says gently. The calm in his voice only fuels the fire burning inside me.
He reaches for me, trying to help me up, but I slap his hand away. "I said, don't touch me!" I scream. "I hate you! I hate you!
He steps back as if I just slapped him.
"You," I hiss, my glare sharp enough to wound. "You ruined my life. You took the only thing I had in this world."
"Elle," he says again, voice cracking now. "Please, let me explain—"
"And then you kept her?!" The words explode from me, each one laced with betrayal. "Not only did you keep her, but you kept her from me. Away from the only family she had."
"Let me help you up," he tries again, his hand reaching.
"If you touch me again, I swear—" I don’t even finish. He pulls back, hands raised in surrender, finally understanding that I mean it.
And then it happens. Before I can slice him open with more of the truth, a sob escapes.
A violent, aching sob that shatters whatever strength I had left.
The tears come fast and hard—tears I’ve kept hidden from the world, even from myself.
Tears that began the day they ripped my baby sister from my arms and never truly stopped.
"What is going on out here?!" Tina’s voice rings out from the front porch. "I can hear you. Elle, what’s going on?"
She’s at my side in seconds, dropping to her knees. "What happened?" she asks, her gaze bouncing from me to Cal.
She reaches for me, and this time I let her help me up. Cal stays frozen, hands at his sides, like he’s lost in a storm he never saw coming. I wish he’d just vanish.
Tina and I start walking toward the house.
"Elle, please talk to me," Cal says, stepping after us, reaching again.
I spin to face him, my voice low and cold and final. "You're a monster."
Tina stares at me, bewildered. "Elle, what is going on?"
"Let's go," I say to her, barely keeping it together. "Please. Let’s just go."
"Elle, please," Cal says, his tone pleading.
At that, Tina turns back to him. "Cal, whatever this is, you need to back off."
If her words weren’t enough, the death stare she shot him was. It stops him in his tracks.
We make it into the house without another word from him, and without him following.
I drop down on the couch, and Tina sits beside me.
She doesn’t probe, doesn’t question. She just stays with me, letting me sob for what feels like a lifetime.
Her hand rubs slow circles on my back, trying to soothe the torment away.
It’s something my mom used to do when I had a bad dream, or I was scared, or scraped my knee.
Tina might not want children, but in this moment, I know—she’d be an incredible mother.
The thought makes me smile, despite the storm inside me.
"Do you want some tea?" she asks gently once my tears have run dry and the tissue box between us sits empty.
One of the reasons Tina and I get along so well is because she never pushes when it comes to my past. She knows there’s a wall around that part of me—thick, impenetrable—and she’s never tried to climb it.
She just waits, patient and ready, letting me offer it one small piece at a time.
After six years of being best friends, she knows most of it.
And tonight, she waits for another piece of the puzzle I’m not quite ready to lay down.
I nod, and she gets up and heads to the kitchen. The house is open-concept, with the living room, kitchen, and dining area flowing together in one seamless space.
I close my eyes and take a few deep, cleansing breaths as I listen to her move around, grabbing the kettle, turning on the tap.
The soft rush of water fills the silence.
A moment later, she sets the kettle on the stove.
The tick, tick, tick of the burner igniting rings sharp in my ears, too loud for the stillness, and then the quiet whoosh of the flame follows.
She opens the tin where we keep our tea bags, pulls down a couple of mugs, and places them on the granite counter with a gentle clink. She doesn’t speak, and neither do I. I know she’s dying to ask what happened, but as always, she waits—quiet, calm, ready—until I’m ready to speak.
Focusing on her movements momentarily distracts me. But the moment there's a lull, the memory floods back in. One second, Cal and I were sharing the most intimate moment we’ve ever had. The next, I was staring at the cop who destroyed my life.
The tears come again, sudden and unstoppable.
But then the kettle whistles, sharp and shrill, and the sound startles me just enough to silence the spiral. To pull me back from the edge, if only for a breath.
Tina returns with two cups of tea in hand. She hands me one, and gives me a look—knowing, full of concern.
I see it in her eyes, the unspoken question: Are you okay?
And the answer sits heavy in my chest, too tangled to give voice to. So I just nod and wrap my hands around the warm mug, like it might hold the peace I’m fighting so hard to find.
I blow into the cup and take a sip. The rich flavor of chamomile and honey soothes my dry mouth. I try to inhale the steam, but my nose is too stuffed to breathe it in.
“Do you need more tissues?” Tina asks, settling beside me.
“I’m done crying,” I reply, with a touch more bravado than I feel.
“I’ll get another box,” she says gently, rising and walking toward the closet at the end of the hall.
The tears return the moment she’s gone, hot and unrelenting. I don’t try to stop them. I just let them fall.
For the next few minutes, I cry and sip my tea in silence. Tina sits quietly beside me, her own mug cradled in her hands. Every time I reach for a tissue, she passes one without a word. The pile at my feet grows steadily.
When my tears are spent and I’m too exhausted to continue the tear-fest, I sink back into the couch and glance at Tina.
“Do you want more tea?” she asks, reaching for my cup.
“No,” I whisper. My voice is hoarse, and the crying hiccups have started. I don’t know how to ease into what I have to say, so I just say it.
“When Izzy and I ran away from our foster home, we got stopped by two police officers. It was early—just after sunrise—and they were right to question why two kids were walking the streets of Madison at that hour.”
She nods, her eyes locked on mine, full of understanding.
“They tore Izzy from my arms. There was nothing I could do but watch while she was taken away, screaming. She was so little, scared and confused. I felt like a caged animal. One of the cops held me back while the other carried Izzy farther and farther away.”
I pause, the memory clawing its way up my throat.
“And like a caged animal, I snapped. I bit the cop’s arm. I bit him so hard I swear I felt my upper teeth press into my bottom ones through his forearm.”
Tina doesn’t flinch. “Okay,” she says quietly, nodding to let me know she’s still with me.
“That cop... he covered the scar with a tattoo, and he eventually left the force.”
Her eyes widen. “Elle,” she whispers, shaking her head slowly. “Don’t tell me that Cal... is Cal? How is that even possible?”
“When I tried to pull Izzy away from the other officer, he flung me off like I was rag doll. I hit the pavement hard. Cal was bleeding, but I remember him coming toward me right before I passed out. I saw his badge. His name was Callahan.”
“What happened to Jackson?” she asks, frowning in confusion.
“His name is Jackson Callahan,” I say. “I always thought Jackson was his last name. Some mail got misdelivered here. His business name was on it, Jackson, so I figured that was it. But tonight, when he said his last name is Callahan, it hit me like a freight train. That day... it came rushing back all at once.”
“He didn’t remember you?” she asks, stunned. “You didn’t remember him? What about your last name?”
“When I found out our grandfather didn’t want us, I decided I didn’t want him either. As soon as I turned eighteen, I changed my name to my mom’s maiden name. For the past six years, I’ve been Elle Keaton.”
I exhale shakily.
“I only saw Cal that day. He was clean-shaven. No beard. I was fourteen, bruised and scared out of my mind. That’s probably all he saw, too.”
“Elle,” she says gently. “He was just doing his job.”
“I told them we were going to see our grandfather,” I snap, my voice sharper than I intend. “They could’ve let us go. They saw the bruise on my face. They could’ve let us go.”
The tears return before I can stop them. Raw, aching. The memory slices through me like it always does. The fear, the confusion, the sheer panic in Izzy’s eyes—it’s never left me.
“They could’ve let us go,” I whisper again, broken now.
Tina nods, then reaches for me, pulling me into a tight hug. She holds on as the guttural sobs rise up from somewhere deep inside me—wild, shaking, unstoppable. She doesn't say a word. Just holds me tighter, like she’s trying to keep me from falling apart completely.
When I fall quiet, Tina pulls back just enough to look at me, her expression open. She takes my hand and gives it a firm squeeze, like she’s bracing both of us for whatever’s coming next.
“I haven’t told you the worst part,” I say, trying to steady a hiccup. “They didn’t just take Izzy away that day... Cal kept her.”
Tina frowns, confused. “What do you mean, kept her?”
“Cal’s family adopted my sister,” I whisper. “They have Izzy. Elizabeth Hazel Callahan. Beth Callahan is my sister.”
Her mouth opens slightly, but no words come.
“They took my sister from my arms. Changed her name. Kept her—and forgot all about me. They left me in the foster system where I had to fend for myself. Four long years. Alone. Losing my mind, not knowing what happened to her. If that’s not cruel, I don’t know what is.”
I meet Tina’s gaze. And for the first time in six years, she’s completely speechless.