Chapter 25 #2
Panic clawed up his throat. For twelve months, he’d managed to avoid this.
He’d gone to Caroline’s funeral, stood in the back with the rest of the deputies and first responders, and watched her family mourn their only daughter.
Watched as Caroline’s daughter, Chloe Whitmore, placed a single red rose on her mother’s casket.
That image drove him to the punching bag night after night until his fists bled and exhaustion finally forced him to sleep.
“I wanted to thank you,” Mrs. Whitmore went on, her voice catching, “for everything you did for Caroline and Chloe.”
“I appreciate that,” he said through the hard knot in his throat. “But that’s not necessary.”
“I think it is. And… we noticed you didn’t make it to the memorial.” Her eyes were too soft, too knowing, and Rush took a step back, forcing her to let his hand go.
“No, ma’am, I was out of town.” He fixed his gaze on Lily’s soft blue studio door at the top of the steps, clinging to it like a lifeline.
“We’d like you to come to dinner,” Mrs. Whitmore said quietly. “Mr. Whitmore and I would like the chance to thank you.”
Every muscle in his body screamed to retreat. “My schedule’s tight,” he began. “Trying to pack and move—”
“Yes, I heard,” she said calmly. “Still, I’d like you to consider it.”
“If you’re all right,” he repeated, taking another half step back. He just needed to escape those eyes, that feeling, that small face before the panic swallowed him whole.
“Sheriff Callahan,” Mrs. Whitmore said firmly.
Her voice blurred into static, replaced by another, softer and slightly breathless.
“Hi there. Sorry we’re running a little later than usual this morning.”
His head snapped up. One pair of grief-hallowed eyes vanished, replaced by another—Lily’s. Gentle, steady green, smiling down at him from the top of the stairs. She held the mittened hand of a little girl bundled in pink, her dark curls tucked under a knit hat.
Chloe Whitmore.
His lungs cinched tight. Of all the places—of all the people—of course Caroline’s little girl would end up here, in Lily’s studio.
Mrs. Whitmore’s face softened as she spotted them. “Hello, Lily. Chloe, darling, do you remember Sheriff Callahan?”
Chloe peeked at him and nodded silently.
Rush’s grip on the railing turned punishing as the iron bit into his palms. The world narrowed to a tunnel, the edges blurring until it felt like he was back on the iced-over canal bank.
His chest froze, and his breathing turned shallow and sharp.
He could almost feel the water numbing his legs and torso, turning him into a deadweight as he sliced through the water to haul the little girl to the shore—alive but motherless.
His stomach churned, and cold sweat broke out on his forehead, chilling him despite his warm sheepskin coat.
The rush of icy cold sharpened to a hard, electrical buzz, and for a horrifying second, Rush thought he might pass out right there on the steps. Instinct kicked in—the training drilled into him in places where panicking meant death. Anchor to the present. Catalogue. Control. Breathe.
The bite of iron under his palm, grounding him.
The scent of pine resin drifting from the garlands strung along Main Street, clean and fresh.
Down the street, a car door slammed, and children’s laughter from inside the studio spilled out, high and bright.
He locked onto the details, forcing his mind to track them like coordinates, anything to keep from sliding back into the soundless black water.
Mrs. Whitmore led Chloe down the steps to the sidewalk until they were directly in front of him. She was a tiny thing, properly bundled up for the Northeast winter with a hat, a scarf tied neatly under her chin, and warm boots. All the winter gear couldn’t hide those solemn blue eyes.
It took every shred of will not to see Caroline’s eyes wide in the dark water.
“Do you remember Sheriff Callahan, darling? He was the brave man who helped you and your mommy.” Mrs. Whitmore bent over to smooth a curl back under the little girl’s hat.
The word made him stiffen before he could stop it. He cleared his throat and reached a place inside him that only years of military training and boots-on-the-ground experience could have prepared him for. What did you say to a little girl with sad blue eyes and no mother?
He focused somewhere above the little girl’s shoulder before swallowing hard and forcing himself to meet her solemn eyes. “It’s good to meet you.”
There was an awkward pause as they waited for Chloe to respond. Rush glanced at Margaret Whitmore, then Lily, finding them both focused on the little girl as if waiting for something.
There was only silence. Chloe looked down, fiddling with her scarf.
Finally, Margaret explained. “Chloe’s not quite ready to talk yet, but I know she thinks highly of you and how heroically you acted that night. Come along, darling. Grandpa is waiting with lunch.” She looked at Rush directly. “I hope to hear from you soon, Sheriff Callahan.”
Chloe glanced up at him then, and Rush caught sight of wide blue eyes and round cheeks as Mrs. Whitmore buckled her in and shut the door with a wave. The car pulled away, leaving the echo of the word hero ringing in his ears.
His vision narrowed again, and he looked up—Lily.
She stood a few feet up, green eyes steady on him, soft and unflinching at what she must have seen. The ice inside him creaked, a hairline crack reminding him he was still on solid ground, not sliding back under black water.