4. Callum
Callum
A dry scoff escapes my chest before I can stop it. “Okay,” I say, leaning back against the door panel to play along just to see where this goes. “In between what, exactly?”
She drops her chin, her thumb digging into her index finger as she begins nervously picking at her fingernails, flaking off tiny flecks of chipped emerald-green polish onto her skirt. “In between here and…the outside world.”
My eyebrows pull together. I search her face for a punchline, a twitch of a smile, anything. There’s nothing. Just dead seriousness in those light silver-blue eyes.
“Are you high?” I ask flatly. “Have you been high this whole time?”
Her head snaps up, her mouth dropping open in genuine offense. “What? No!”
“Right,” I say, utterly unconvinced.
I’m done trying to solve this puzzle for tonight. I reach down, grab the door handle, and pop it open, cold wet air immediately rushing into the warm car. “Thanks for the lift.”
I step out into the downpour, popping the hatch to haul my heavy canvas duffel out of the back. Before I can shove the trunk closed, her door slams shut, and her Doc Martens come crunching around the side of the car.
“I’ll walk you in,” she says, tucking a wet strand of dark hair behind her ear. “I can pull some strings with the owner so you can actually get a room without a reservation.”
I swing the strap of my duffel over my shoulder, water instantly soaking through my hoodie. “I’d appreciate that.” I look toward her back seat, where a dark lump is still curled up, sleeping. “Don’t you need to get your cat?”
She waves a dismissive hand, turning toward the wooden porch steps. “Jett sleeps like the dead.”
We head up the wide wooden stairs onto the covered porch, blessedly stepping out of the direct rain. Freddie walks straight over to a small, hand-painted birdhouse mounted on a post by the front door, reaches two fingers inside the tiny hole, and pulls out an old, heavy brass skeleton key.
“The owner locks up tight when it gets late,” she mutters, jamming the key into the lock and turning it until the deadbolt retracts with a heavy clack.
I give a stiff nod, my jaw clenched against the chill. At this point, I don’t care if she thinks we’re in fucking Narnia. I just want a hot shower, dry clothes, and a bed that isn’t the front seat of my truck.
She pushes the heavy oak door open and steps inside, leaving me to follow.
The heat hits me first, instantly melting the ice in my veins. Then the smell comes—fresh homemade bread, crisp linen, and the spicy bite of real cinnamon.
The interior is definitely old, but immaculate. Dark mahogany wainscoting runs up the walls, polished to a dull shine, meeting wallpaper printed with faint botanical leaves. The hardwood floor under our boots is covered by a plush, hand-woven Persian runner that muffles our footsteps.
Off the main foyer, through a wide arched entryway, a massive stone fireplace dominates the parlor. A fire is blazing inside it, oak logs popping and snapping, casting dancing shadows across velvet armchairs and a polished grandfather clock softly ticking in the corner.
My detective brain automatically scans the space. It’s past midnight. The front desk is completely unmanned, a brass bell sitting silent on the dark wood counter.
An open, unattended fire blazing in an empty room of a wood-frame building while the whole town sleeps. Fire hazard waiting to happen, I think, my eyes narrowing at the orange embers snapping against the hearth. Definitely an OSHA violation.
Winifred turns around on the plush Persian runner, zipping her rain-damp leather jacket. “Stay right here,” she says, gesturing vaguely toward a heavy velvet armchair near the hearth. “I’m going to head upstairs and see which room isn’t currently occupied.”
I raise an eyebrow, shifting the heavy strap of my canvas bag higher on my shoulder. “And the owner is just going to let you hand out keys?”
“I’m an authorized guest manager in spirit, it’ll be totally fine,” she says with a flick of her wrist, already stepping toward the wide oak staircase. As she starts ascending the steps, I catch the muttered whisper she probably thinks I can’t hear: “I hope so.”
I let out a low huff through my nose and drop my duffel onto the floor near the bottom banister.
Honestly, as far as emergency storm shelters go, I could do a hell of a lot worse. It’s warm, clean, dry, and smells like fresh bread instead of stale wet dog. It’ll do fine until I can get Harlan on the phone tomorrow morning to sort out my truck.
I run a wet hand through my hair, pushing the damp strands back off my forehead, and stare into the snapping fire.
My mind is still buzzing, irritated by the sudden derailment of my entire week. I don’t handle disruptions to my routine well. Never have. I like order. I like a controlled, predictable line from point A to point B.
Back home, my life is dialed in down to the hour.
Five in the morning, sharp, I get up, run five miles or hit the weights, take a fast shower, and drink a mug of black coffee while I check the morning log.
By six-thirty, I’m at my desk. In the evenings, if I’m not stuck in an interrogation room or logging evidence at the station, I’m at home, sitting on my couch with a case file on my lap—either an active county folder or Rory’s.
The guys at the station give me shit for it constantly.
They try to drag me out for Thursday night pool tournaments at the local dive or Sunday golf scrambles, but I stopped caring about that stuff years ago.
When I was in college, sure. I had a full ride playing linebacker for UT Knoxville and I wasn’t a saint.
I drank too much, stayed out until sunrise, and hooked up with my fair share of beautiful women.
Until one of those beautiful women sat me down on her dorm bed and told me her period was three weeks late.
The sheer weight of that news had slammed into my chest like an open-field tackle.
It turned out to be a false alarm, but the terrifying reality stripped away all my college bravado in twenty-four hours.
It made me realize two things real fast: I wanted a real career in law enforcement, and I wasn’t sure I ever wanted children.
I was too single-minded, too obsessed with my work.
I wasn’t built to divide my focus, and bringing a kid into the world just to have a dad who put his job first felt wrong.
It also made me realize I didn’t even like the bar scene. I did it because everyone else did, and honestly, it was hard to enjoy much of anything without Rory.
Rory had always been my shadow. Four years younger, but you wouldn’t know it by the way he trailed behind me through the woods back home. Where I went, Rory was three steps behind—a skinny kid with scraped knees and a laugh that could clear out a room.
We were always getting into trouble together.
Dragging rotten plywood out of the woods to build sketchy ramps over the creek bed, stealing the keys to Granddad’s riding lawnmower to race it through the back pasture, or breaking the neighbor’s shed window with an errant baseball.
I always took the heat for it, standing in front of my Granddad while Rory hid behind my hip, trying to swallow his giggles.
When he vanished, it felt like someone had turned off the lights in a room I’d lived in my whole life. All the big, bright, beautiful parts of my world just went flat and dark.
Even now, years later, whenever I catch myself having a good time—laughing at a joke, enjoying a quiet night, feeling warm—this ugly spike of guilt sinks straight into my chest. It feels like a betrayal. It feels wrong that I get to experience those moments while Rory doesn’t.
I know it drives my Gran crazy that I’m still searching. It breaks her heart every time I reopen the file, request fresh records, or follow up on a cold lead. I understand why she wants me to let it go. It hurts too much for her to keep hoping he’s still out there somewhere.
But if I don’t fight for him, who will?
He’s my little brother. I’m not giving up. Not ever.
The creak of the floorboards overhead snaps me out of my thoughts.
I tilt my chin toward the ceiling, listening as hushed, rapid-fire voices drift down the stairwell.
It’s too muffled to make out the exact words, but the tone is unmistakable—two women going back and forth, tight and agitated, practically arguing in furious whispers.
A second later, quick footsteps hit the wooden steps, descending fast.
I turn toward the staircase just as a middle-aged woman rounds the landing, halting dead in her tracks on the bottom step.
She’s wearing faded floral pajamas under a plush velvet robe tied tight around her waist, her blondish-reddish hair pinned back in a loose clip.
Her brown eyes are wide as silver dollars, her jaw practically hitting the floor as she stares at me like I’m a ghost that just materialized out of thin air.
Freddie hovers a step behind her, looking equal parts defensive and mildly guilty.
Even caught off guard in her nightwear, the woman radiates unadulterated authority.
It’s in the unyielding line of her shoulders, the ramrod-straight set of her spine, and the dark, piercing weight of her gaze.
She has the air of a small-town judge who’s spent fifty years taking zero bullshit from anyone, and she clearly doesn’t appreciate strangers standing in her foyer past midnight.
My law enforcement instincts kick in automatically. I clear my throat, rolling my shoulders back as I stand up a little straighter to look her dead in the eye. I step forward, extending my right hand in an open, non-threatening gesture.
“Evening, ma’am,” I say smoothly. “I’m Callum McKinley. I really appreciate you letting me crash somewhere dry for the night. My truck—”
She doesn’t reach out to take my hand. She doesn’t even glance down at it. Instead, she slowly pulls her arms tight across her chest, her brown eyes narrowing into dangerous little slits as she fixes me with a glare that could melt steel.
“Who the hell are you,” she hisses, “and how the hell did you get here?”
Oh boy.